TALONS OF THE GODS
By Leroy Dumont
Copyright 2010 Anthony Dias Souza
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 978-1-4523-3150-8
Other Books by Leroy Dumont
Bitch of Balar
Demon Horde
End of Forever
Keeper of the Seal
Reprisal
Sweet Revenge
The Bladesman
The Crystal Curse
Chapter 1
The paladin urged his exhausted mount to the top of the small dune overlooking the muddied body of water in the otherwise barren desert. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the blistering midmorning sun, he gazed down at the oasis of Shua. The sparse kanju grass beneath the four huddled palms boasted a austere tent. Two camels listlessly reclined in the shade of the trees.
Shua has been infested by Hagani, Ethran muttered silently as he gently stroked the neck of his horse. Vaki snorted his disapproval of the encampment, his nostrils flaring at the pungent scent of camels carried on the thin desert breeze.
The Hagani never crossed the Kadhi River from their sanctuary in the Natti Marsh except to raid the caravans traveling between the three desert cities of Jarak, Corumad and Tarmak. They were outcasts by birth and bandits by avocation, tolerated only in the Voltaran controlled city of Manat in the extreme southeast. Their mere presence at the oasis of Shua was considered proof of criminal intent.
With a gentle nudge of his heels, Ethran urged the animal forward down the slope of the dune, toward the oasis. The sands of the Malanat will soon taste blood, he murmured inwardly.
Are there very many of them, the gentle voice inquired, echoing within the periphery of his mind.
Why do you ask, Ethran responded. Can't you see that which offends my eyes?
I see only the thoughts you consciously project, the voice reminded him, patiently adding, as I have already explained.
You pry, sorcerer, Ethran grumbled. I could accomplish this chore without your incessant intrusions. Your voice is distracting. It diverts my attention from the reality at hand.
From the moment it first intruded on his meditation in the city of Tarmak, the disembodied voice haunted his consciousness, pressing him to rescue the boy. Ethran reluctantly accepted the contract. Presuming the voice to be that of a benevolent sorcerer, he rendered his oath of hire.
The paladin was a sworn member of an exclusive order of mercenaries. Born to Nordashi parents on the Dohran plateau, Ethran went to Tarmak to join its cadre of the Legion of Zargon at the age of ten. Now in his twenty-third year, his skill rivaled that of his peers. Many considered him an undeclared mentor, a champion of the martial arts.
Zargon, the founder of the order, was himself an accomplished mercenary who followed a rigid code of ethics that valued honor and self-discipline above life. He came to the Malanat from beyond the domain of the Phylistani, contracted by the prince of the city of Corumad to protect the royal caravans. His skill and bravery in battle attracted several apprentices with whom he formed the first cadre of the Legion in Corumad.
Within twenty years, the organization extended to the other three independent cities of the Malanat, establishing a cadre in each, patterned after the first in Corumad. Each separate contingent had its own board of commissioners. These commissioners governed the cadre, maintaining the code of ethics established by Zargon. They contracted the services of the mentors and paladins within their urban jurisdiction.
The mentors of the Legion were seasoned masters of the martial arts. They were instructors extremely proficient in the use of the kortamat, their fundamental weapon. Paladins served as the armed force of a cadre, aspiring to become mentors at the discretion of each board of commissioners.
The cadres of Zargon resided within the cities but apart from the official bureaucracy. Collectively numbering over four hundred, they possessed sufficient strength and influence to remain independent of the urban princes. Their members sustained themselves by contracting their services as mercenaries, supporting causes that did not violate the basic ethics set forth by Zargon.
Usually, the commissioners of the urban cadre to which the paladin belonged assigned a contract; however, Ethran had accepted that of the presumed sorcerer on his own. He felt pressed by the sense of urgency permeating the disembodied voice.
Are there very many of them, the gentle voice persisted.
The paladin instinctively shook his head. Probably no more than four of the shavati by the number of camels and the size of their meager tent.
Shavati was a term of derision. It depicted the worst or lowest form of humanity on the face of the earth.
Ethran spurred his mount forward. No point in delaying the inevitable.
Carefully choosing his path down the sloping embankment toward the oasis, he circled the grove of date palms to approach the resting camels from the north. One of the reclining animals bleated, rousing the occupants of the tent.
Within moments, three robed men bearing the rippled swords of desert nomads at their waists quickly stepped past their camels toward him and his mount. They exchanged covert glances and casually moved apart to confront the intruder on three sides.
"You travel far from Tarmak without provisions, sahlid," the man directly in front of him observed, taking note of the absence of saddle bags and flasks on the horse. "You carry nothing, not even water to quench your thirst. That would be a journey made in great haste."
"I hurried when I heard that vultures infested these waters," Ethran returned caustically, staring expressionless at the man as he slid his six-foot frame from the back of Vaki. With his staff in hand, he planted his feet firmly on the hardened oasis sand and readjusted the silken blue sash that adorned the top of his billowy white pantaloons. "Shavati are not welcome here," he declared acridly, glancing over at the tent to see if others had remained inside the canvas structure.
"We do not need permission to set our tent on the Malanat," spat the Hagan to his left.
"Take it elsewhere," Ethran returned sharply as he took a full step forward to stand before his mount. "There is no rotting carrion here for you to feed on."
The man in front of him ominously rested his palms on the hilt of his sword. With a sneer of disdain twisting the left corner of his upper lip, he slowly surveyed the riding garb of the paladin. His eyes moved from the silken headdress held firm by a braided leather headband to the strapped leather boots Ethran wore. "Insults do not advance the lot of a city dweller weary from his journey," he growled before transforming his voice to a more patronizing tone. "Still, on behalf of the great lord Shaitan, we offer you the hospitality of our tent and bid you no harm."
"I know of your hospitality," Ethran returned with a rasp of disdain. "You shavati ply your guests with your foul fermented brew until they fall drunk. Then, you butcher them with your blades. Since that would be my fate, we best settle this here and now."
The sneering nomad squinted at the bronze-ringed staff in the right hand of the paladin. "Your staff bears the marks of the Legion of Zargon," he noted, pointing with his left hand while retaining his right upon the hilt of his sword. "Is that implement for tending goats the fierce weapon of the paladins?"
"It is a fitting weapon for doing battle with mindless vultures," Ethran responded, still without expression.
With a deft twirl of his right hand, he trapped one end of the staff under his left arm and, in the same motion, slid off the disguised scabbard to reveal a glistening foot-long blade. In the next instant, he transferred it to his left hand and repeated the process, exposing another blade at the opposite end of the staff.
"The kortamat is an implement of death," he growled at the startled man, holding the bared weapon at arms' length in front of his body. "Its balanced set of two-faced blades thirst for shavati blood."
Feet apart, Ethran cradled the kortamat in his folded arms and glared at the man.
Retreating a step, the Hagan nervously glanced at his companions.
"Time to die, maggots," Ethran growled as he leaned forward menacingly. "Fill your hands and engage me."
Simultaneously, the three men drew their weapons and lunged toward him.
Ethran exhaled and twirled his kortamat, bringing a blade to bear on the neck of the bandit to his left. It opened a large gash at the jugular and sending the Hagan reeling to the sand. With a continuing swirl, Ethran plunged the opposing blade of the staff into the diaphragm of the second adversary, rupturing his heart. A rush of blood gushed outward across the white outer garment of the Hagan as the paladin withdrew the kortamat.
With two of his companions lying dead to either side of him, the third staggered backward and dropped his sword to the sand. He fell upon his knees, holding his hands to the heavens. "Spare me, paladin," he wailed. "Take all that is mine but leave me my life."
Kill him, the voice demanded as Ethran hesitated.
Instantly conceding, the paladin hurled the kortamat at the groveling Hagan, impaling him at the base of his throat. A gurgle of blood belched from the gaping mouth of the nomad. He shuddered speechless and fell on his left side to the sand.
Stepping forward, Ethran retrieved his kortamat, placing the heel of his right boot on the forehead of his fallen adversary and dislodging its impaled blade. He impassively stared down at the dying man. There was no reason to kill him, he murmured, blinking at the small bead of perspiration that had trickled through his hirsute eyebrow to the corner of his left eye. He yielded and dropped his weapon.
He was a Hagan and a murderer, the disembodied presence countered. His mind held images of seven hapless victims. Among them were two women and a child one held in her arms. His presence polluted the Malanat. The disembodied presence paused to reconsider then added, besides, it does not become a man to plead for his life after he draws a sword.
The paladin again peered down at the corpse that now lay silent in the blazing sun. I have killed someone who was unarmed, he muttered. That is not the way of a paladin.
I demanded it, thus his death rests on my head, the voice countered. Now go, I grow impatient. Let us go to the boy.
With a sigh of resignation, Ethran reached down, picked up the discarded scabbards of his kortamat and tucked them in his sash. The rush of adrenaline stimulated by the brief battle had measurably accelerated his pulse, and he paused for a moment to draw a deep breath, letting the air slowly hiss through his lips.
Why are you hesitating, the inner voice probed, noting the absence of active thought within the mind of the paladin.
To regain my composure, Ethran replied, scowling at the intrusion. Those of us who possess bodies are plagued by the desert sun.
Setting the kortamat on his brawny right shoulder, he slowly walked toward the Hagani tent. Be quiet, sorcerer, he muttered. I take little pleasure in this chore.
As Ethran approached the shelter, the front flap opened. A veiled youthful female and a sandy haired boy emerged. The former fell on her knees just beyond the doorway. "Please don't kill us, noble paladin," the girl pleaded. "We were held captive of those you dispatched to the gods."
"The Hagani have no gods," Ethran muttered. "They worship a demon." He paused briefly to study the girl kneeling before him. "Stand if you have feet," he ordered. "I want to see your face."
Bolting upright, the girl swept aside her veil but kept her eyes subserviently lowered.
"You are not a Hagan," Ethran observed. "Your skin favors the color of milk."
The young girl nodded. "I am from the city of Manat. They say my father was a Voltaran. The Hagani took me from the merchant who purchased me at the temple of Al'Sannud."
"Your face has the cast of those who live on the uplands," Ethran conceded. "It also bears a resemblance to those from Krete."
"My mother was from the isle of Krete," the girl confirmed. "She passed her life serving in the temple of Al'Sannud."
"An honored trade," the paladin offered politely.
In Manat, the female devotees of the god Al'Sannud often served as temple prostitutes, offering their services to the faithful for a price. The erotic form of worship financed the temple, and was enjoyed by the men who visited the city, especially the sophisticated highlanders from the secluded Voltaran plain.
Ethran paused and studied the passive eyes of the young boy who remained defiantly upright throughout the exchange of words. The lad stood a sturdy five foot seven with muscular arms and an expanded chest, and met his gaze without wavering.
"And what about him?" Ethran asked the girl, nudging his head in the direction of the young boy whose face and demeanor bore a hint of experience beyond his years. "He also looks Voltaran."
"The Hagani took him for trading," she replied. "He is from Corumad. I know little more."
"Can't you speak for yourself?" Ethran asked, fiercely gazing into the eyes of young lad.
"If you wish, paladin," he replied without hesitation. "I merely waited to see if you would kill me."
"Aren't you afraid of dying?" Ethran asked gruffly.
With the same cast of defiance gracing his eyes, the boy gave a slight shrug. "Why should I fear death? It is our inevitable destiny."
"The response of a paladin," Ethran observed, nodding his approval. He has courage, he said to his unseen companion.
And a strong will and agile mind, the inner voice added.
The boy sustained his rebellious defiance as he stared at the silent paladin. "Are you going to kill me?" he asked passively.
"No, you are unarmed," Ethran replied as he sheathed the blades of his kortamat.
"And if I were?" the boy asked.
"Would you attack me?" Ethran asked in turn.
The boy shrugged. "If I had cause."
Ethran finally smiled. "I shall take care not to give you cause," he responded with a dip of his head. "You have the advantage of youth on your side."
"And you the advantage of experience," the boy said without brokering a smile.
"A measured balance," Ethran laughed. "You are audacious enough to be a brother of my blood."
The boy skeptically probed the steely brown eyes of the paladin and casually dipped his head. "Since I have nothing of value to match your generous offer, I will see to your horse and provide it with water."
An offer of kinship on the Malanat normally required the recipient to provide a suitable gift. The boy was aware of the custom as practiced in the city of Corumad.
Ethran gave an appreciative nod. "A worthy compensation. Go, kinsman, take the beast. Its name is Vaki."
The boy finally smiled. "It will be an honor, paladin," he said, ambling off in the direction of the stallion to see to its care.
"What is the name of that young lion of the desert," Ethran asked, nudging his chin after the departing boy.
"He is called Daran, noble paladin," the girl replied.
Ethran returned an affirming nod. "With such a name, he is a Voltaran."
The girl gave an apologetic shrug. "I am not certain, noble paladin. I know only that he is alone on the Malanat."
Tilting his head, Ethran gazed out at the boy leading his mount toward the waters of the oasis. Is he the one you seek, he asked, carefully framing a conscious image of the young man for the benefit of the disembodied presence that inhabited his mind.
He is, the voice confirmed.
Then I have fulfilled my contract, Ethran sighed. I have rescued him as I pledged.
Only the first part of your contract, the voice countered. His safety is not yet assured.
The paladin scowled, glaring upward at his brow, attempting to fix the location of the unearthly presence within his mind. I did not intend to leave him here in the desert, he muttered. Now, go away and let me finish the chore.
Turning back to the girl, Ethran paused and surveyed the face of the timid female standing before him. Never once had she fully raised her head or her eyes but kept her gaze fixed on her sandals. Her face remained partially hidden beneath the fiery red tresses that draped loosely down past her modestly tanned cheeks.
"Have you a name?" Ethran asked.
"At birth, I was called Skyla," she replied meekly. "But my dead master, Sahlid Detal, called me Shilia because that name better suited his tongue,"
The paladin offered her a reassuring smile. "Skyla is a name of a Voltaran," he suggested.
"It is," the girl acknowledged.
"It is a good name," he said. "I will call you Skyla since it was given to you at birth." He paused, analyzing the youthful cast of her features. "You are not very old," he observed.
"In the midst of my thirteenth," she declared proudly, reassured that the paladin meant her no immediate harm. "If you will enter this unworthy shelter, I will bathe and feed you, and provide you the pleasure of my flesh."
The paladin grinned down at her. "I will forego the bathing for the moment but take the food. I am too exhausted to indulge in the wiles of a temple harlot."
Skyla mustered a coy smile. "I am no longer a temple harlot," she said softly, shifting her penetrating bluish green eyes to the far corners of their sockets. "I was sold to my dead master as a concubine when I passed my first blood. It has been no more than three months."
"But you did ply the trade," Ethran insisted.
"Since my tenth year," Skyla acknowledged, somewhat boastfully. "I received my instruction in the temple of Al'Sannud at the side of my mother."
The paladin mirrored her continuing smile. "I have heard of the harlots of Al'Sannud. It seems they provide more than ample distraction to the uplanders from Voltar. If you plied your trade in the temple, then you have been instructed as well I."
Skyla finally peered up at his unwavering brown eyes, crinkling her brow in a twist of disbelief. "As harlot?" she rasped.
Ethran scowled. "As a paladin," he snapped, jabbing his right index finger at the doorway of the tent. "I am Ethran of Tarmak. Go fix me something to eat."
Chapter 2
Setting himself on the sparse collection of reed mats within the austere Hagani dwelling, Ethran casually watched as Skyla busied herself at the small iron stove, trying to revive the dying embers beneath the cooking pot. The spray of sunshine radiating from beneath the elevated skirt of the tent rendered her flimsy robe virtually transparent, enticingly exposing her gracefully contoured body to the his accommodating eyes.
For a paladin, you reflect too much on the beauty of the harlot, his omnipresent inner voice chided. Your contract only charges you with looking after the boy.
Go away, sorcerer, Ethran silently snarled, brushing back his shoulder length ebony hair as if to dispatch the disembodied voice. I would like to enjoy my thoughts without being badgered by someone who has not had the courtesy to state his name.
As I said in Tarmak, I am the guardian of the boy, the voice responded. My true name is of no consequence.
A deep scowl crept across the perspiring olive tanned face of the paladin. It is of consequence since I am bedeviled by your incessant presence, he muttered. For the last three days, I have been plagued by the sound of your voice. I am beginning to wonder if you are not merely an affliction of my addled mind.
No fault exists with your mind, the voice stated unequivocally.
You exist, sorcerer, Ethran countered, scowling up at his left eyebrow in the presumed direction of the disembodied presence.
I exist for a purpose, his unseen companion declared.
Then you are a demon bent on tormenting me, Ethran countered.
I am not a demon, the voice sighed.
Ethran vented a grunt. If you are not a delusion or demon, then who are you? I wish to know by whom I am possessed.
The disembodied voice again sighed. The paladin had been badgering him since they first encountered in Tarmak, pressing for endless details regarding the boy. If it would put an end to your pointless antagonism, I will tell you my name.
Then speak, Ethran snapped. What is it? Say it, so I may know whom to curse.
Seraph, the voice replied. It was the name given to me by my father.
Then you do possess a body, Ethran suggested.
Did, Seraph amended. As my consciousness matured, I set aside my material form and, now, dwell solely in the essence of my spirit.
The goal of a dedicated mentor of the Legion, Ethran said.
I have succeeded where they have failed, Seraph retorted, facetiously aloof. He immediately recanted and added. Of course, I had the benefit of my father's instruction. He was the first to ascend beyond the material.
Your father?
Karanis. He saw to my training before he left this earth.
Then he is dead, Ethran suggested.
Relieved of the burdens of body, Seraph explained. His essence took to the cosmos to dwell amongst the stars.
What became of his body, Ethran asked, furrowing his brow.
It dissolved when his essence left it, Seraph replied.
Dissolved?
It returned its substance to the sources from which it was derived.
The paladin mildly frowned and shook his head. An extravagant tale, he said skeptically. In meditation, I dwell within my essence but return to find my body intact.
The purpose of meditation, Seraph said blandly. It is little more than a momentary excursion into the realm of the real. My father discovered a way to permanently pass to the other side.
An extraordinary accomplishment, Ethran said with a complimentary dip of his head. I have heard of the illustrious Karanis. He was a sorcerer of great renown.
Is, the disembodied voice amended. His essence has not vanished from this universe.
"Seraph," Ethran repeated aloud before returning to the silence of his thoughts. I have heard your name spoken in the Legion of Zargon. They say you opposed Shaitan on the Malanat, being neither demon nor god. Is this true?
You ask too many questions, paladin, Seraph sighed. For the moment, it should suffice to know that I commune with your mind.
For an eternity of moments, Ethran grumbled. For the last three days, I have not enjoyed a single uninterrupted thought. I don't know why I tolerate you.
"Your nourishment, noble paladin," Skyla announced with a smile, intruding on his silent conversation with the disembodied presence.
Ethran glanced up at the bowl of steaming curds held in her outstretched hand. "Is there nothing else other than that boiled camel milk?"
The girl mustered a weak shrug. "The Hagani ate everything they stole from our caravan. There is nothing left but this and a small handful of herbs."
Inhaling deeply, the paladin hissed an extended groan. "It will satisfy the rumbling in my bowels to the revulsion of my tongue," he sighed as he accepted the bowl of curds.
Crinkling his nose against the pungent scent of the serving, he spooned a large ladle full of it into his mouth and quickly swallowed. "The herbs softened the foul aroma of camel," he muttered, thinly smiling at the girl. "You did the best you could with what you had."
"I am not a very skilled cook," Skyla confessed. "No one taught me how to prepare a meal."
"You have done well nonetheless," Ethran said, ingesting another spoonful of the curds. "I find no fault with your food."
"I am glad, noble paladin," Skyla returned. "I was afraid you would turn me out into the desert if the meal displeased you."
Swallowing, Ethran offered her a consoling smile. "I will not leave you to the desert," he assured her, adding as an afterthought. "I have never before possessed a harlot."
"Oh, I am skilled in the art, noble paladin," Skyla beamed, adding a more accommodating tone of familiarity to her voice. "I can give you much pleasure."
"Without doubt," Ethran acknowledged.
A delighted twinkle flashed in her eyes. "We can begin as soon as you are through eating," she offered.
Ethran elevated a delighted eyebrow at her unabashed exuberance. "I shall forego the joys of the flesh for the moment," he declined politely, peering out the doorway of the tent at the approaching boy. "First, I want to speak to the young lion of the desert."
"Do you mean me, paladin?" Daran grinned, overhearing the complimentary reference as he entered the tent.
"There is no other lion about," Ethran responded, pointing to the edge of the mat. "Sit and we will talk."
Daran nodded and pressed his buttocks to the matting, crossing his legs in front of his body to support his elbows. "What is it that you wish to say?"
Say nothing about me, Seraph ordered.
The paladin unconsciously nodded as he acknowledged the silent command. "What brought you to the waters of Shua?" he asked the boy.
"The Hagani," Daran replied.
Ethran scowled. "Is your mind deprived of words?"
The boy winced at the rebuke. "No, paladin. I have an abundance. I will speak them if you have an ear."
"I have two ears," Ethran retorted. "Neither one is feeble nor deprived. Don't be miserly with your words."
"I will attempt to be loquacious, paladin," Daran said blandly, forcing a thin smile.
Ethran mildly frowned at his tone. "Why did you come to Shua?"
"I was taken from the caravan of the merchant, Sahlid Detal," Daran replied. "He was to give me safe passage to the city of Jarak after the death of my mother." A grimace of pain engulfed his face as he paused and looked away, out the opening of the tent. "She passed suddenly in the city of Corumad after drinking a deadly potion," he continued solemnly.
Ethran nodded, briefly closing his eyes in a show of sympathy. "Was that done by her own hand?"
Daran shook his head sadly. "It was passed to her by another. I don't know the name or face of her assassin."
"What about the merchant?"
"He was killed by the Hagani when they attacked our caravan," the boy explained. "We were hurrying to the city of Jarak with only two armed servants. They were killed along with Sahlid Detal." He nodded his head in the direction of Skyla. "No one was spared except me and her."
"Why were you spared?" Ethran asked.
Daran shrugged. "I truly don't know. The Hagani mentioned a price that I would bring them in Manat. Also, I don't know why she was spared."
The paladin glanced over at Skyla and winked. "The reason she was spared is obvious," he grinned. "The Hagani are renowned for indulging in the pleasures of the flesh." He looked back at the boy. "Who was to purchase you in Manat?"
Daran again shrugged. "They only spoke of someone called Doletian. That was the only name passed from their lips."
"Sahlid Doletian is the first minister of Maghar Sannian, the liege lord who rules Manat," Ethran explained. "What would he want with you?"
"I don't know," Daran replied. "However, my mother warned me not to speak with those who visited Corumad."
"Why?"
"I am not certain. All she said was that if my presence in Corumad was known, it would bring about our deaths." He paused and again shrugged. "That was all she said."
The paladin momentarily lapsed into silence, staring aimlessly out the doorway at the distant desert dunes.
It is too late to heed the warning, Seraph declared, interrupting his thoughts. The existence of the boy is known in Manat. That is where the Hagani were taking him.
Why? What awaits him there?
The minions of Mathias, the imperion of Voltar. He wants the boy.
Why, Ethran persisted.
For sufficient reasons, Seraph replied evasively. The boy must be taken to Dohra. He is not safe on the Malanat.
The paladin dropped his gaze to the sand inside the doorway. That is the land of my kinsmen.
I am well aware that, Seraph said. That was why I chose you and not another paladin. The boy must be taken there because that is the only place where the hirelings of Sannian will not dare follow.
Conceding, the paladin instinctively nodded. His kinsmen jealously guarded their domain.
Inhabiting an elevated plateau beneath Mount Beludi east of the desert, the Nordashi were an independent breed that kept itself apart from the rest of the Malanat. Their domain was secluded, protected from the desert floor by inaccessible cliffs and a single rising passage no more than the width of three horses abreast. Residing in a veritable natural fortress, their warriors could readily defend themselves even against the more populous and advanced inhabitants of the highland plain above Manat.
Ethran turned back to the boy. "We are going to the plain of Dohra," he announced.
Daran returned an impassive shrug. "Why?"
"To visit my kinsmen," Ethran replied, turning his head in the direction of an illusive sound. "I have not seen them for several years."
Before the boy could press further, the whinny of Vaki drew his attention to the doorway.
"A rider approaches," Ethran declared as he slowly rose with the aid of his kortamat. "Come, let's see who visits the waters of Shua."
Falling in step behind the paladin, Daran made his way through the doorway unto the scant patch of kanju grass surrounding the tent. He stared past Ethran at the rider who had paused to survey the three lifeless bodies simmering in the heat of the desert sun. "He appears disturbed by those you have slain," the boy whispered.
Ethran grunted a surly affirmative. "From the cast of his face, he knew the carrion. It doesn't please him to see them dead."
"He wears the leather vest of the Voltarans," Daran noted, intently studying the new arrival.
"But his face has the cast of the Hagani. He is from the city of Manat."
"Are you certain?"
The paladin nodded. "The mount he rides bears the markings of Sannian. He is a hireling of the maghar." He paused and held up his hand to the new arrival. "There is nothing to fear, sahlid," he called out. "Set your feet on the sand and water your mount."
The rider cautiously slid to the ground, dropping the reins of his horse near one of the dead Hagani and slowly approached. "I was not sure if peril awaited, sahlid," he said in the brusque dialect of the Hagani as he neared. His words were much more stilted than the usual Malanatese spoken within the cities. The man stiffly dipped his head and continued. "I did not wish to incur your wrath or give offense."
"No offense has been rendered," Ethran smiled, cradling his kortamat in his folded arms. "Did you come from the city of Manat?"
Casually placing his right palm on the hilt of the three-foot sword holstered in a scabbard at his waist, the new arrival slowly nodded. "I am Kralag of Manat in the service of Maghar Sannian. I..." He faltered and leered at Skyla who, at that moment, stepped from the tent. The sunlight reflected from the nearby water rendered an air of transparency to her robe.
"Ethran of Tarmak," the paladin said, scowling at the distracted man. "You ride in the heat of the sun."
"On a mission of great urgency at the command of the noble maghar," Kralag said without removing his eyes from the girl. "I am going to Corumad by way of Shua and felt it best to water my horse."
"Then take as you will of the water," Ethran invited. "If you will set your blade on your saddle, you are welcome to take comfort in the shade of our tent."
Kralag wryly smiled and bowed his head as he continued to stare at Skyla. "Your most gracious offer honors me but, with no offense intended, I regret I must decline and continue to Corumad."
"No offense can be rendered by one who is faithful to the command of a maghar," Ethran declared. "I bid you good fortune on your journey, Sahlid Kralag."
"And, good fortune to you, Sahlid Ethran of Tarmak," the man returned, edging backward toward his horse. Reaching behind him, he fumbled for the reins of his mount. "Are you going to the city of Manat?" he asked, now turning his eyes to the paladin.
Ethran passively shrugged. "Were I to follow my desires, I would return to Tarmak and the Legion of Zargon where I reside."
"Then, paladin, the fortunes of the gods on your journey. I will water my mount."
With a glance cast over his shoulder, Kralag turned and led his horse to the edge of the oasis, kneeling beside the animal to drink before quickly remounting. In obvious haste, he jerked the head of his mount northeastward and set his spurs to its side.
The paladin stood watching as the silhouette of the rider vanished beyond a nearby dune. "That one rode to meet with his kinsmen, the Hagani," he noted.
"Are you sure?" Daran asked.
"Beyond doubt," Ethran replied. "The sand raised by his horse shows he now returns to Manat."
"He said he was going to Corumad," Daran noted.
"A lie he felt obliged to devise," Ethran declared. "He now goes to inform his maghar of your presence and of the deaths of the others."
Daran peered after the man. "Will he return with other Hagani?"
"The ride to Manat will take him a day and a night if his horse survives," Ethran replied, turning back toward the tent. "Come, let's get out of the sun. We will rest until sunset then ride through the coming night."
"To the city of Tarmak," Daran suggested.
"To the plain of Dohra and my kinsmen," Ethran said with a shake of his head.
The boy frowned. "But you told our visitor you were going to Tarmak."
Ethran glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes and smiled. "I said I would ride to Tarmak if I were to follow my desires which, under the circumstances I cannot."
"You deceived him," Daran muttered with another frown.
"Misled him," Ethran retorted. "A paladin never lies. Come, let us see what comfort this tent will provide."
Chapter 3
The boy must be found and brought to Gedar, Shaitan growled, his words resounding within the confines of the mind of Imperion Mathias. I grow weary of the darkness of this wretched place!
He is on his way, my lord, the imperion humbly responded. I have received word that he has been taken from the caravan of Detal and is being escorted to the city of Manat.
Lies, Shaitan bellowed, the telepathic vehemence of his voice stiffening the body of the imperion. His escort was slain by a paladin from Tarmak! Even now, one of the dregs of the Malanat rides to inform Sannian of it. Your wretched cousin has failed!
Mathias shuddered and nervously wiped the beads of perspiration from this brow. Who is this paladin?
Does it matter, Shaitan roared. He is of the miserable Legion of Tarmak. No doubt, the pawn of my insufferable brother. I am shut off from the boy's mind.
To steady himself, the trembling monarch of Voltar hobbled over and sat on the bottom of the three steps leading to the throne. Duon Sannian will send more warriors to see to the boy. On this, I give you my oath.
And by whom do you swear this oath, Shaitan sneered. Do you pay homage to another god?
No, Lord Shaitan, Mathias wheezed. You are my only divine.
Then, do not render me your feeble oaths. Go! Send word to that incompetent cousin of yours. I do not trust him to heed my voice. Have him get the boy or have his head.
As you command, Lord Shaitan, the imperion whimpered, leaping to his feet. I will do it immediately.
Quickly shuttling out of the throne room, Mathias glared at his servant master, who stood pressed into an alcove just beyond the doorway. "Jezean, send me a messenger and ready the swiftest mount in my stable," he commanded.
The man politely bowed and turned, slowly ambling off down the hallway.
"Hurry!" Mathias shrieked. "If the messenger is not here presently, I swear, I shall have your head!"
Taking three quick steps, the servant master glided into a service corridor and, once out of sight of the monarch, slowed his pace back to a leisurely stroll.
"You best hurry," Marian chided as the elderly man approached her waiting post. The servant mistress took quiet pleasure in harassing the stoically formal servant master. "The imperion appears to froth at the mouth."
Jezean lifted an unconcerned eyebrow as he ambled past the woman. "The imperion always froths at mouth on the days he silently paces in the throne room. It seems as if he has a demon obsessing his mind." He paused at the doorway leading to the stables and beckoned to the stable master who sat on a small wooden bench in the adjoining room. "Ready a mount and a messenger and send him to his Royal Highness," he ordered.
The stable master silently snickered. "Which? The mount or the messenger?" he asked facetiously.
Jezean scowled. "The messenger. The imperion will have your head if there is a delay."
Lazily rising to his feet, the man ambivalently shrugged. "My head would not be worth the price of a swordsman to remove it," he chortled, vanishing beyond the room.
Jezean glared after him for a moment then slowly turned, returning to the servant mistress. "Your nephew, Mazon, has no respect for station, Paean Marian," he grumbled with brows lowered in stern disapproval.
"The plague of his service as a warder in the outlands, Paean Jezean," Marian sighed. "He has little fear of death."
"I would not have approved of his hiring if it was not a boon granted to you by Master Makavian," Jezean snipped. "I loathe those who sell themselves as mercenaries."
The warders of the outlands were a rebellious breed. Most were lesser relatives of the titular heads of the nine noble houses of the highlands who were trained as warriors, although some were outcasts from the two peasant villages the highlanders called raspans. In the eyes of the servant master, a warder had little respect for either custom or form.
"Mazon squandered his earnings rolling with the whores of the Polydon," the woman chortled. "Now, he has nothing to spark his lust but the rumps of the mares he tends."
The scowl on the face of the servant master deepened. "Your tongue is as vile as his," Jezean muttered, ambling back toward the main hallway.
Mathias stood pressed against the doorway of the throne room. "Where is the messenger?" he bellowed as the servant master popped into view.
"He will be here presently, your highness," Jezean replied blandly. "He readies himself and his mount."
Rasping an exasperated sigh, Mathias glared. "See that he makes haste," he said in a more civil tone, handing the man a sealed scroll. "He must be on the lowlands before the sunset. Have him give this to Duon Sannian of Manat."
"As you command, your highness," Jezean said, bowing fully to the waist as he accepted the scroll. "I will direct him to ride as if pursued by demons."
Advise me, Shaitan demanded, feverishly probing the mind of the monarch for a hint of the conversation.
The messenger readies himself, my lord, Mathias mentally whimpered. He will reach the city of Manat before the sun sets.
He had better, Shaitan roared. I will not be deprived of the boy.
Chapter 4
Sitting upright within the threadbare Hagani tent, Ethran gazed out at the last vestiges of sunlight slowly retreating from the peak of a distant dune. He allowed his mind to entertain an image of the man who earlier visited the oasis.
You should have killed him, Seraph muttered as he probed the vision present the mind of the paladin. He carries word of your presence to Sannian in Manat.
Would you have me kill everyone who ventures on the Malanat, Ethran grumbled, inwardly scowling at the intrusion.
But he was a Hagan in the hire of Sannian, Seraph countered.
Then why didn't you speak out earlier, Ethran muttered.
The disembodied voice breathed a discernable groan. Because, in the obstinate manner of a paladin, you did not reflect on his image until a moment ago. Thus, I had nothing by which to render judgment.
A smile creased the cheeks of the paladin. A welcome revelation. From now on, I will not even reflect on the words I hear.
It will be to your peril, Seraph cautioned.
Ethran raised a dubious eyebrow, peering up in the imagined direction of the disembodied voice. How so, he demanded.
Seraph faltered then finally replied. Only I know the full extent of the dangers that confront you and the boy. If I am not made aware of your encounters, you will be deprived of my counsel.
And pleasantly rid of your infernal prattle, Ethran added. He leaned over and gently poked the shoulder of the sleeping boy. "Get up. We must press on to the well of Adura."
With a momentary flutter of his eyelids, Daran sprang to a sitting position beside the paladin. "I will see to your mount," he offered.
"You will see to striking this tent and the loading of the camels," Ethran ordered. "Vaki will not bear three bodies on his back and, tomorrow, we will broil in the midday sun without the solace of this tent."
"But I have never struck a tent before," Daran complained. "I lived in a house made of mud brick in Corumad."
"Good, the chore will be a worthy experience for one born to mud bricks," Ethran grinned. "I will see to my own mount."
Skyla apprehensively approached the pair as the paladin rose. "I could help him," she offered.
Ethran glanced at her and nodded. "You had better," he laughed. "See that he doesn't pack the camels in the folds of the tent."
Skyla delightfully tittered as she peered at Daran. "I will protect the camels, paladin," she snickered as Ethran stepped out of the enclosure.
"You need not bother, woman," Daran growled as he began to roll the matting. "I am not completely feeble of mind."
"Then to what extent is your mind feeble?" Skyla giggled.
"Not in the least," Daran snapped. "Gather the provisions and be quick about it or I will bring down the tent on your head."
Quietly chuckling as he listened to their conversation, the paladin strolled past the tethered camels, reached out, and took hold of the reins of his horse. "You savor the taste of the kanju," he smiled as he stroked the neck of the grazing animal.
The sweet grass of the oasis was a welcome change from the usual fodder fed to the horses of Tarmak.
Ethran continued to smile. "I should have joined you here on the kanju instead of eating those wretched curds."
Doesn't the flavor of curds please the tongue of a paladin, Seraph chided, noting the distaste for the fare reflected within his thoughts.
Ethran scowled. A paladin is trained in the art of doing without food, not ingesting something that reeks with a foul odor.
Then you best subsist without food, Seraph chortled. The ride to Adura will take more than a night and a day and, since you failed to pack provisions, there will be nothing to eat but curds.
I will eat the foul curds, Ethran retorted. It should divert my mind away from the incessant rasping of your voice.
Seraph wheezed a detectable sigh. I would have imagined you would enjoy having the company of another.
It would be a joy if your prattling voice had a face, Ethran countered.
Then, see my face, Seraph declared, pressing an image of a robust elderly man into the mind of the paladin.
Ethran momentarily startled as the image reflected in his consciousness. How is it that I see this, he demanded.
Didn't you want to look at my face, Seraph snickered.
Ethran unconsciously nodded. That was my intent.
Good, Seraph laughed, now that your mind possesses such an image, it should reflect joy at the sound of my voice.
It will never reflect joy at your encroachment on its solace, Ethran muttered. Leave me in peace.
Little affords pleasure to a paladin, the disembodied voice sighed. On occasion, others have offered up prayers on hearing my voice.
Prayers to be rid of your presence, Ethran countered. This paladin offers up no more than curses to the gods.
You have little faith in the gods of Tarmak, Seraph noted. I have seen this within your thoughts.
The paladin scowled at the indiscriminate probing of his mind. What would be the purpose, he asked rhetorically. The city gods are no more than blocks of carved stone decorating the temples. Only foolish men pay homage to them. I have never known of a bounty received from the prayers offered up to those worthless gods.
You have seen my face and heard my voice, Seraph offered. Doesn't that imply a possible existence of the divine?
An artful ruse, Ethran retorted. You showed me no more than an image of my dead father by calling to the forefront, a memory already present within my mind. It hardly established you as a god.
Then what make you of me, the disembodied voice asked.
The paladin briefly pondered the question before responding. At the most, I presume you are no more than a hapless sorcerer who inadvertently misplaced his body, he replied sarcastically. He frowned then added. One who forces others to do his will.
Seraph again emitted a recognizable sigh. I enslave no one, he murmured. I intrude on your mind merely to insure the safety of the boy.
Why, Ethran asked as he sat beside Vaki.
Why what, Seraph asked in turn.
Why are you so concerned with the boy?
To insure the fulfillment of his destiny, Seraph replied. You have pledged your oath to that end.
I pledged myself to free him from his captivity, Ethran countered. That was the extent of my contract. It will be fulfilled the moment I remove the boy to a safe place.
The disembodied voice transmitted a discernable frown. You pledged yourself to his safety, he contradicted. That entails more than removing him from the Malanat.
How much more, Ethran demanded.
To see him seated on the Voltaran throne, Seraph replied. At that point, your contract will be discharged and you will be relieved of your oath.
Voltaran throne!
Precisely, Seraph confirmed.
Brow furrowed, the paladin glared down at the earth beneath his boots and voiced a grunt of disgust. You seek to involve me in an imperial intrigue, he grumbled.
You became involved from the moment you rescued the boy, Seraph countered. Since you let Kralag return, your face and name will be known in Manat. The imperion of Voltar is not a forgiving man.
You hired me by under false pretenses, Ethran muttered. No mention of the throne of Voltar was made when we first spoke in Tarmak.
There was no need then, Seraph countered. Surely, you anticipated more than freeing the boy from the Hagani. Did you plan to turn him out into the desert to die?
To transport him to a city and possibly a relative, the paladin replied. I undertook your contract to come to Shua and free the boy. That, I have fulfilled. You made no mention of a further obligation when we spoke.
Nevertheless, you rendered your oath, the disembodied voice insisted. Thus, you are bound to continue as his protector until he is safe from harm.
And when will that be, Ethran murmured.
When he safely transported to Voltar and the protection of his kinsmen, Seraph replied.
Have them come to the Malanat to get him, Ethran countered.
Impossible, Seraph sighed. Without an open insurrection, Duon Tacion and his men-at-arms could not return to Voltar with the boy.
Duon Tacion?
His cousin. He must prepare to receive the boy.
Slowly passing his palm across his face, the paladin emitted an elongated sigh. No wonder Mathias is trying to kill him, he murmured.
Do you know of Mathias?
Ethran frowned. Would I have spoken his name if I were ignorant of his existence? For such a powerful sorcerer, you do not appear very astute.
Forgive my failing, Seraph sighed. I bow to the unlimited knowledge of a paladin.
By its nature, knowledge is limited, Ethran muttered. He briefly reflected on their conversation then asked. If you are powerful, why not inhabit the mind of the imperion and prevent him from harming the boy?
Because I am not all-powerful, Seraph sighed. Besides, Mathias listens to another.
Another what?
Another with powers similar to my own. On the highlands, he is known as the Beast.
The one called Shaitan?
The same, Seraph confirmed. He guided the bloodied hand of Mathias who slew Mosian, the boy's father.
"Mosian," the paladin said aloud to stimulate him memory. Wasn't he the elder brother of Mathias and the first born of Ramadian who created the highland throne?
He was, Seraph confirmed. While Ramadian lay on his deathbed, Mathias contracted assassins to kill Mosian who was the rightful heir.
They say Mathias ordered the deaths of the entire family of Mosian, Ethran declared. No one is known to have survived.
No one but Daran, Seraph amended.
Then he was spirited to the Malanat by his mother, the paladin suggested. That was how he came to Corumad.
No, his mother also died by the hands of Mathias' hirelings.
A twist of confusion drew together the hirsute eyebrows of the paladin. If that is so, why did the boy say his mother died in Corumad at the hand of an assassin?
She was no more than a servant in the Mosian household, Seraph explained.
A servant?
The daughter of Prenel, the tender of children in the House of Domar. The boy was in her charge. To save him, she took the infant to Fiaron Lotian, a nephew of Ramadian, who brought them to the Malanat. The woman, Ilia, was given sanctuary by Casias of Corumad at the behest of Lotian and, there, raised Daran as if her own child until her death. Casias rendered the boy into the charge of the merchant, Detal, for safe transport to the city of Jarak.
Why?
Because he was afraid the assassin of Ilia also would kill the boy.
Ethran picked at an elusive desert insect that had invaded the folds of his pantaloons. How did the Hagani know of his journey to Jarak?
The disembodied voice puzzled at the paladin's momentary distraction before responding. Shaitan learned of his flight and conveyed word of it to Sannian who set the Hagani on his caravan. That was how the boy came to Shua.
Why didn't the Hagani kill him if that was the purpose of Mathias?
Seraph hesitated as he pondered the question.
Well, Ethran prompted.
Possibly, to have him on the highlands in the palace at Gedar, Seraph speculated. He may want to personally see Daran die just to insure that the deed is done. After all, his assassins failed at the first attempt on his life.
Collaring the oversized insect, Ethran flicked it into the waters of the oasis. What about the death of his governess in Corumad? Was that ordered by Sannian?
Undoubtedly, Seraph replied. Had the boy remained in Corumad, agents of Sannian there would have abducted him or seen to his death. That was why Casias sent him to Jarak. Daran was to be concealed there, in the abode of a cousin.
The paladin wheezed another elongated sigh. You involve me in imperial intrigues, he grumbled. Why didn't you seek help on the highlands?
Because the boy is on the Malanat, Seraph replied with an equally labored sigh.
Ethran shrugged. That is irrelevant. If Mathias planned to take him to the palace, you could have inhabited the mind of the master fiaron who rules the temple in Gedar and have him see to the welfare of the boy. Doesn't he worship the innumerable gods of the Voltaran fiarn? Speak to him as if one of those gods.
I would never proclaim myself a god, Seraph retorted with an affronted air. My consciousness would never embody such a lie.
Then plague the mind of the master fiaron as you have mine, Ethran said sarcastically. The distraction should bend him to your will.
The disembodied voice snorted an irrepressible chortle. Alas, Master Makavian is not as indulging as a paladin of my acquaintance. He pays little heed to my words.
Insist on his compliance, Ethran suggested. Can't you force yourself on his mind?
Regrettably, no, Seraph replied. Master Makavian is strong willed, so much so that he entertains intrigues that are beyond my probing. Not even Shaitan has subdued his mind. So, while he pays homage to my counsel, he does so with no more than empty words.
Aimlessly plucking up a blade of kanju, Ethran gazed off at the distant peaks of the Adon'kudashi range that ran its course along the northern Malanat, separating the desert from the distant lands of the Phylistani. Mount Hareeb, the highest peak of the range, was perennially covered with snow. The inhabitants of Tarmak referred to its spirit as Al'Kumak, their chosen deity. It was the principal god worshipped in that city. The residents of Manat paid homage to Al'Sannud, the spirit of a rival mountain in the southeastern desert that bore that name.
Have you no sway over Mathias, the paladin asked.
Seraph vented a plaintive sigh. Mathias has been the willing slave of Shaitan even before the death of his father, Ramadian. The Beast keeps my voice shut off from the mind of the imperion.
The paladin descended into an extended thought, pressing aside his awareness of the disembodied voice. He absently trained his eyes on the frantic ripples cresting about the hapless bug as it made its way across the water of the oasis in search of the dry desert sands.
You have a deducing mind, paladin, Seraph observed, interrupting his train of thought. Indeed, I only have the power to inspire a measure of compliance by infusing my voice within another mind. Beyond persuasion and a modicum of intimidation, I can do little else.
Ethran fostered a smug grin. That was my conclusion. You are little more than a voice.
It suffices, Seraph said.
Not adequately, if you have no power over Mathias or the master fiaron. If you are the son of Karanis, it would seem that, at least, you should be able to fashion a feeble bolt of lightning or turn Mathias into stone.
The wiles of charlatans in the bazaar, Seraph muttered. I do not dabble in the arcane arts. It corrupts the spirit and forever binds it to this earth.
It would serve you better since you appear bent on meddling in earthly affairs, Ethran retorted. Could you, at least, give the master fiaron a mild case of indigestion? Your incessant presence within my mind has soured the curds in my stomach. You should do the same for the master fiaron.
Seraph again sighed. In the past, before he died, Master Wacan accommodated my counsel but Makavian, who replaced him, knows my limitations. He busies himself with his own self-serving intrigues. He conceals much from my mind.
The paladin passively shrugged. Fortunately, you do not fancy yourself divine, he murmured. You would make a hapless god if you can't strike fear into the heart of someone dedicated to temple service.
Distressfully true, paladin, Seraph conceded. Gods and demons possess only the power to instill fear. Without that, a god or demon is of less consequence than passing desert winds.
Of less consequence, the paladin agreed, a grin twisting his lips. That is why the paladins have abandoned them.
To dwell within their essence, Seraph suggested.
Indeed, Ethran agreed. We thrive in the silence of our innermost selves. He deeply inhaled and slowly released a consoling breath. If I had wanted to, I could have shut your voice out of my mind when you first accosted me in Tarmak, he declared smugly.
I am aware of the obstinacy of the paladins, the disembodied voice chortled. Why did you accede?
Ethran shrugged. Maybe because you are the first sorcerer I have encountered. I was intrigued.
Intrigued. Was that the whole of it?
Ethran thought for a moment then unconsciously shook his head. No, it was more your tone of voice. You beseeched me to protect the boy like a distraught father seeking aid on the behalf of his son. I felt obliged.
I am in your debt, paladin, Seraph said softly. You have correctly assessed my intent. My concern is no more than the echoed pleas of a father for his son.
A puzzled twist curled the substantial eyebrows of the paladin. Father? Is this boy your son?
He is more than a son, Seraph replied. I was with the mind of Mosian, his father, at his moment of death. Even as the hirelings of Mathias pressed the scorching irons to his flesh to force him to reveal the secrets of Ramadian, his thoughts were only for the safety of his sons.