It took Norbanus three more days to reach the keep, even with mounts provided by the Knights. When he got there, he sought me out swiftly, with Didius and Ringelius at his sides. He undid a lot of the tales of his being a cold, uncaring commander, I am sure, with the embrace he gave me.
When told the tale my arrival, he kept silent for a long time, then sighed. “Billenius, please, don’t try to ride her yourself in a race. I was certain we would find you lying with a broken neck somewhere along the way, victim of some creature’s burrow.”
It was all he said to me about the events. And by all, I mean all. From him I never found out about their slaying the other drakonis, or driving the other off the second bridge. All that I got from Ringelius and Furius on the road south from the keep to Pelori. Luckily, despite passing under the very Paths of Damnation, that road was quiet. We were now teamed up with a caravan from distant Tyrosht, as well as detachment of the Knights. It took twelve days, moving slower with the caravan, but was worth it to enter town in crowd, incognito as my folk say.
That stretch of road was the most nerve wracking. Even after we passed the north gate into that walled town, I still worried that the one who had taken my eyes was looking down with her one remaining eye, waiting for the right moment to come cook the rest of my flesh for dinner. I entered the town I had once been a hero with my well known and described face hidden in the depths of my cloak’s hood.
Pelorí was not the town I remembered. Then again, after half a century, few places filled with those of the shorter lives could be. Names and people changed amongst them, both of residents and businesses. It was disconcerting and comforting. The strangeness came from it being the same in layout, with a different feeling that set me on edge, hauntingly so. I could sense the ghosts of auras at my vision’s edge, trying to gain my attention to their perpetuated echoes, all the time I knew these were but shadows. But still they kept calling to my mind. Drifting along the periphery of that vision, never where I could focus on them, just hovering at the shadows between this world and the next.
There was still a fear of the Queen of Flames in the folk here, but it was not what I remembered. Her grip on the towns was broken, and had been for some time, as the younger folk feared only the hills above town, where their parents still crouched when a dragon's shadow passed over the town. Those who spoke to me, and knew who I was, told me she had not attacked the town since the night on the Paths, even during the chaos of the Times of Change. The few who had seen her hunt the skies since that night on the Paths of Damnation said she was no longer the same. They said she no longer sought out caravans as often, nor the beasts of the fields in the area. There was a fear in her now, some claimed. She knew she could be slain, and many said her agents that did still pass through feared we who had broken her and survived.
The less the people knew of who I was, the better we all had agreed. I hid in my room early on, despite the great pains it caused me to sit within walls that still bore the remnants of the flares of many trysts with Nonia there. That encounter with her reincarnation in the mountains had done little to ease those pains. That day in the Deamon Mountains had left me with the scars to remind me that love does not conquer all. Those echoes of the past pressed on nerves left raw by more recent events.
When that sorrow managed to break through despite my best efforts, I retreated to the table in the tavern below. A table I had shared so many times, by the fire, with two old Karleekie, or dwarves to call them as these homani did. Both had traveled here in exile, one decreed by their Tsar, the other self-imposed in protest of the other’s casting out. Those two gentle souls had taught me that honor was something all folks had. Indeed, there were ghosts and dreams at that table, gentle ones. Ones that I welcomed, even if they were long dead.
Pelorí always seemed to bring out my more uncouth side. On the third day, trying not to lose a simple lunch to a rotten apple after it, I had sat at that corner table. The echoes of Nonia had driven me from the room that day. So I was sipping a mulled wine in that commons. A very specific mulled wine, one I had developed a taste for at this table. That combination of spices had sparked the memory of some of my kind and a few Karleekie around me, of an age to remember those days, and me. As I had been, and what I had become on the Paths.
I could hear the whispers, as some hastati Didius had found here was guarding me. I could feel the rawness of my guard’s nerves, see the agitation faintly even in his aura, as I had since the drugs of the Decemviri had wakened my donum. I was definitely recovering, and that bode ill, for I was acting more like the me of old, not the wounded blind man. What healing had given been me as a spite to the Decuriahad also allowed me to feel less like the ruined Augur who had come back from the Daemon Mountains, and more like the Custos, I had been for a good part of my life, as well as the augur. There would be a difference to us all, I guessed, and I am sure the ruined person she had seen was not what Nonia had expected either.
I called loudly for more mulled wine, and a toast to those who had walked the Paths of Damnation. My protector had drawn in his breath, knowing there was nothing he could do once I had spoken to prevent the damage I had caused. And while that Triari's fires had shown the damping of failure, it also had shown with pride. Not at my foolishness, as I read it, but that I had the spirit still to challenge the world. Daring my old foes, and still honor the memory of those I had walked those Paths with. Sooner or later, it would have happened, I am not a meek vir by nature.
And it must have spurred the memories of others. Some left in fear, others with that gleeful dancing of their flames I knew meant I had just made a mistake, and let someone who should have been left in the dark know that my fires were here. But many, and not just the Karleekie who frequented this place, joined in the toast. The calls for drinks were loud, not as forced as I had feared they would be. It left me wondering if the reports of the town being under the talons of that draka were lies spread by her agents. None had proven more than shadows and fabrications so far.
But by then, I had enough wine in me not to care. I had cowered in fear long enough on the ride here. No longer would I hide from the Igni Regna, as her claimed title is rendered in my folks language. A member of my race suddenly joined me at the table. He tolerated the toast, enjoyed it even, before he spoke.
“Varus, you are a fool. There are agents of the Decuria in town, looking for you. And here you sit, waving your glass, calling out to them, and tempting the Parcae to let word get to the One in the Mountains.” I knew that voice, another retired Custodi, one who had been here before the League, and would probably die here, waging his own covert war against my foe on the mountain above town.
“I know you, Drinius." A bare whisper of a gentle breeze then entered my voice. "Your uncle is dead, if you have not heard.” I took another long draught of my beverage and refilled the mug I was using. “And let them all know I am here. I care not. Better yet, bring them to me, so I may know my foes, and they may know that even the blind can see the plots they weave.” I took a long swig of my cup and then let loose a real challenge. "Let them tell that bitch I am here, and she owes me an eye still!"
I felt Drinius Cato, one of the few of his gens not aligned with the Decuria and their damned council, lean back. He refilled his goblet, and before you ask, fluids sound different as they enter various vessels. My other senses allow me to discern the little things like that. Hearing as yields that the he stem causes a hum, like a horn for metal, bells for glass, as the liquids rattle them, to satisfy your curiosity if you wondered. And the aromas rise out differently, as the wine reacted in different ways with each material, changing taste, aroma, even the thickness of the liquid.
“I heard and rejoiced rather than wept. It was a stain on the honor I have built, to have it known he was my relative.” He paused to take a drink, then continued after he had. “I have heard many things this hebdoma, blind man. Seen people you should avoid at all costs. Those branded with the mark of the hundred. And they are flaunting that mark now, not hiding it. But you, without eyes, how will you know if it is friend or foe before you?” He was talking softly, his voice muffled by the goblet he held before his face. As I said, you learned these things, being without eyes, those little tell tale things that told you what once vision had sufficed for.
I sat as I had before, trying to smile. The scars of my burns, and those damaged areas that had not healed, made that painful, and probably hideous to see. With each pain, I gave up a prayer to Befana, goddess of mercy, to let me smile again. From the gasps and shuddering auras, I guessed that the smile was there, but as ugly as I thought. There are things that take time to regain, and my smile was going to be one of them I could tell. But it was returning. I let it slide back to the slackness that eased the pains, addressing this information more openly.
“Drinius, I thank you for your concern, and the information. Now, how about a drink to something we both believe in? Good food and fast horses, was that not the one we used here?” I held out my mug, not just to toast, but to show that my hand did not shake in fear. Well, not so much as to spill my drink.
He chuckled, and I felt the light touch of his goblet on my mug. “Indeed. And do not dare to think you have a faster horse than I right now.” The old challenge, not to a fight or betrayal, but to defend the lineage of the nags I had ridden when here in those days. One laid again now as a reminder that once I had not been blind, and to this friend, eyes mattered less than judgment. Sometimes I wondered if somehow Drinius was not adopted, or a changeling, as the tales of our eastern brethren hold some folk are. He has a more refined, and cleaner, sense of humor, better manners than the conceited folk he was raised amongst, and true honor. I drank the toast, then tossed out my own little barb.
“Well, they tell me she is a descendant of Turbator, but her gait is a bit haggard. We were riding hard though, with few rests. Her legs feel clean and like cords of willow. As to her eye for terrain, that, sadly, I cannot judge, save that with a blind man upon her, she found no way to break a leg or my neck.” Wine splattered over me, and I gingerly took the cloth I had to mop up any messes I had made pouring my beverage earlier to my face. And it was worth every painful daubing to hear his laughter. It was not as clean and infectious as Ringelius’ was, but it was still genuine.
“Turbator’s line? And an onagera? Perfidio, if I did not know from speaking with Norbanus this morning that you were not long for here, I would have a proposition for you, as one of the colts sired by Eurus has shown to be as swift as his father.” In these parts, the west wind is faster, as it races down the lee slopes of the mountains. But the east wind from the desert lasts longer and is more feared, for the dust and sand storms it brings out of the desert beyond the watered fringe of the mountain range’s base. That a person who lived in this land would name a mount for that wind, well, that took guts. Or an onager with stamina, to run as long as the wind blows.
I was sorely tempted, for Eurus truly had possessed that kind of stamina, and if both speed and staying power bred true, gods that would be a mount to ride. A mount that would demand a hero in the saddle, though. I thought back upon several races we had out on the desert pavement just east of town, as we had each searched for the steed we wanted, one that ran fast and long, smart and keen of senses. Turbator had been close, so had Eurus. Gerrae had that speed, maybe even the stamina we had sought in those days. If Drinius had by his own program built such a onager, then there was something there to discuss.
Before I could decide, the Parcae accepted my challenge by sending a familiar foe. One who must have ridden several onagers to death to make it here already. The door opened and he came in, with several of his cronies, I guessed by footfalls and Drinius reaction. My table companion stood, and my honor guard closed around me. I heard the settling of spear butts like the reports of the handheld lead slingers of the Karleekie. There also was that subtle hissing screech that a knife makes when drawn in a manner to gain attention. Drinius cleared his throat, but another voice spoke first. My guardian.
“Greetings Stichus. So sad to see you made it out of Jugosium alive.” Cethegor. I cursed myself for not recognizing his aura.. He must have rode his own steed down, or used the postal relays along the mountains. My thoughts were a bit scattered, and I almost missed the reply, as I wondered when he had arrived in town.
“I am here to take charge of the Augur. He is a servus of the Decemviri..” He got no further, for now I had a glimmer of what was to come. The words of Didius in my cell came to mind. I had always been under the hands of a Triari, or one they trusted. That was a hard trust to earn. The implication of servus, though, to call me a slave, not of the gods I had served, but of the Decemviri, that council of ten bigoted fools, said more than I cared to believe. Their arrogance had indeed gone far beyond the bounds of common sense.
“If he is an Augur, then by tradition, he speaks for the gods, and is a flamen. And the flamenis are not allowed to be enslaved. Any who serve the gods are immune to slavery, and you know this, Stichus.” The steel was still in Cethegor's voice. The steel of the hastati, carried by the third rank spearmen of the Legions. A steel laced with deadly iron, and knowledge of what combat truly entailed.
Sticcius was known for his duels, ones always where he had the advantage, and gave no quarter. Cethegor was calling him out. Pain laced my face, as a smile tried again to form. Never accost a warrior in his favorite watering hole, the old saying went. This was my watering hole, or had been, and it felt little changed. I took a gamble, a strange one, given the time I had been away. I knew the Karlykn who had served me was the one from the old days. He and his wife actually owned this establishment. One of the prized decorations in those days had been two sabers crossed above the fireplace. Real ones, not decorations. Ones he had offered to any who started fights on the premises, to fight to the finish.
“Yevgeny, I think we may have someone who desires to borrow your sabers.” I cursed, as in the stillness after the Triari’s challenge, even my soft voice carried throughout the room. Silence always has a way of happening just in time for a mouth to fill the lack of noise with some words it will regret.
The silence was short, as many chairs and benches pushed back from tables, and I heard many weapons drawn. My own left hand fell to my right abdomen, where once had sat the hilt of a sword, one still in my room now. A firm hand rested suddenly on my shoulder, holding me down, as I instinctively rose to join the promised fray. I grunted, straining to rise, but not yet recovered enough from the poisons or the ride here.
“No, sit Augur, there will be no fight today, the odds are against this poor excuse of a soldier today. He will not face one from the Legions without any back up, nor will he cross his gladius with the axes and hammers of your supporters here.” Like Drinius, Cethegor was also of the Insulae, those islands in the sea beyond the mountains to our west. But his clan was known for being more sensible, not of the ten gens, or their patronage.
But Sticcius was a damned fool beyond most fools. His hand shot out and grasped my right wrist. The one they had broken so many times over the years, thinking that was the hand I used most, forgetting the legends of the sinister handed Custos. It still hurt like hells, I felt the bones snap, still brittle from the old breaks and the poisons I had been fed. My cry was one that brought Cethegor's spear from its resting spot. I felt the blade thrust past me, and hear the breaking of skin and curse of my assailant as my wrist was freed. Sticcius staggered around to the left side, taking what sounded to be a punch to the kidneys from Drinius, landing across the table, upsetting our drinks as he sent my bottle of wine to a shattering end on the floor.
Which put him in reach of my good left hand. I gave in to impulses long suppressed. This bastard had stolen much of my life, health and possessions over the decades he had ruled our temple. Sticcius was so busy fighting to stand, he never noticed it. His coin purse had landed in my hand, so I gave a firm yank, and felt the snap of the thongs that held it in place.
Sticcius must have had some backers, as plates and mugs began to break, the surest sign in this tavern of a fight. Short of Yevgeny wading in, or worse his wife with her rolling pin. The difference in heights between our kind and the karleekie made sure that there was strange ratio of head blows to body punches occurring. Most of those shorter folk only come up to our bellies at best, and their heads are of the stones they often mine, as my hands ached in memory of other fights here, even with a freshly broken wrist. That only a few chairs had been thrown so far was a miracle, I felt, until Drinius suddenly grabbed my shoulder, hauling me to the floor, just in time for the once familiar passage of a bench barely cleared the table.
The bag of coins fell from my hand, lost in the fray, leaving me to pray that the mistresses I served would send them to any save Sticcius or his friends. The soft jingle of and rolling of metal giving me more hope yet, as the pouch must have split. By the sounds of pain, the bench had struck my old jailer hard and true. Splinters came back our way, indicating even more than the smell of chablys from being closer earlier, he had his armor on.
Just as things started going really good, as always, the town guard showed up, with Norbanus and Didius in tow. That put a damper on everyone's enthusiasm. The fools on Sticcius side obviously were not familiar with the local guard's ideas of locking up those not from town, no matter who was at fault, for I heard many of them resist. Followed shortly by that satisfying melon rapping that said someone was taking a nap, and waking up in a cell.
Drinius at last spoke again, giving us all a way to back down. “Sticchus, leave. Billenius and I were talking horses and racing. Disturb us again, and I will take offense.” I hoped that Sticcius would take the challenge, and that I had eyes still to see that fight. Then again, if I still had my eyes, I would have gutted the bully years ago myself.
It was enough to both shame and discourage the centurion, but I was sure his insides seethed with hatred what had happened, and that would explode again when he found his coins gone. My vision of his aura confirmed this, as I could see the brightness I had long associated with anger flaring within his flames. Fingers of it flickered away from the core of his aura, extending out to create little tingles in my skin. He would either snap, and probably die here, or back down, accept the shame for now, and seek his revenge later. And like a brand, there showed that blue spot, dark as a lake's waters, that all the Centurions seemed to bear. Something tried to make a connection in my mind, but events were moving too fast. I heard Sticcius breathing heavy as he formulated his reply. Thinking was a strain for him, it had always seemed, and he was being forced to think quickly on his feet in this confrontation.
To hasten things on and keep him rattled, I made a choice of my own from my place on the floor. Without consulting with any of my guardians. "Very well, Drinius, I accept your challenge." My voice had to find one of those moments of silence in excited times. “While our normal race, the one to the Anvil and back, would take too long, I could agree to race the mare on the desert. The two day race to the butte, ending at the gates of the river. My party is traveling south, so that would not impede too much upon our plans." I took the moments as most of the foe was removed to find my chair and pour a fresh drink into a mug pressed into my hands by Yevgenie. "I must admit that I cannot ride such a race at this time, but I would hope to have my nephew ride for me.” I had rarely thought of Furius as anything but a helper since he had arrived at the temples. The son of my younger sister was not known for much other than his anger, which had been there since his birth. He was a bundle of rage most of the time.
Yet from this journey, I knew another side of him, when he was on an onager racing across the grasslands. In those moments he was at peace, all his energy focused on being one with his mount, seeking to catch the very wind.
I knew in that moment, he would gladly ride Gerrae, and do so with skill that I could not. I failed to notice the frenzy around us during that moment. Not one of combat, but one of wagers being laid quietly, and in many ways. The door was nearly torn off its hinges by several of the Karleekie, and even a few of my kind, who raced off with the news that there would be a race of two onageri that were legend in the area. The colt of Eurus would face the filly of the line of Turbator. I came to the real world at the shouts in the street. And then hung my head in shame, knowing I was committed, and at best could only change rider if Drinius allowed it.
Cethegor hissed softly, but the moment for battle was gone. Any attempt at harming me now would cause wagers to be forfeited, and lead to riots. And in those brawls, even the Century Sinister would not be able to work safely or surely as the guard would be involved as rioters. Sticcius was hauled off, protesting his immunity to the local laws, to no avail.
With his departure, Cethegor spoke. “I had thought, for a moment, Augur, that your arrogance would again make me have to rescue you.” He shifted, and stretched a bit suddenly, then sat with us. “A shrewd maneuver, that was. In my long absence from this home I adopted, I forgot that my fellow citizens have such a passion about racing and animals.” I heard him pour not two drinks, refilling Drinius’ goblet and my mug, but three, as another goblet was filled.
Drinius laughed suddenly. “Gods, to slay any involved in a race, before or during it, that carries the penalty of death by torture, even before the Queen of Flames ruled here. If you disappear or are even hurt, the townsfolk will tear apart the town to find who ruined their entertainment.” He slapped the table loudly. “Varus, I had heard your mind was gone in pain, that you had never recovered. Now I know this was just the poisoned lies of my island kinsman.”
I wanted so badly to smile, at that moment. To hide behind a grin of joy the fact that this was all just a mistake that would wind up working in my favor. The muscles tried to remember it, to overcome the ruined portions of my face, and let my old grin of wicked delight come to it. But it caused me too much pain. I held out my mug instead, and felt the light touches of two goblets on mine.
“I guess we have a race, and just need to come to terms on the conditions and wagers, then.” I said softly, before another thought hit me. "I tore off that bastari's coinpurse, see if you can find it. That will be my wager, in payment for his many attacks on me in the temple." That evoked a long round of laughter from all, as they found the coins, gathering them up for me.
Our talk turned to the race then. At my neck, that stone of Soludrin’s crafting was strangely warm and vibrating. He had always loved races himself, so I guessed he wanted the details. I hate having an audience when I arrange such, but did not take off the necklace. Let him listen to what was to come, and I hoped he would enjoy it.
It took most of the day, as we had sat there drinking, and eating the foods of the day by the kalend of my people’s dietary commandments. Sure enough, Didius and Norbanus had heard, but instead of rushing to stop us, they merely sent Furius to me. My nephew was not angry, but excited. Since my race to the safety amongst the Knights of the Sands, he had taken to aiding me in Gerrae’s care. He was mostly silent in those times, but his aura had spoken loud. He wanted that onagera, to be on her back even just once in a trial such as I had faced was calling to him.
I was willing to let Furius chase the wind, or Pulvis Spatium, Enduring Dust, as Drinius’ stallion was named. He merely sat quietly, allowing me to set conditions, and spoke only when spoken to. This was not the nephew I knew. He was content, still bursting with energy, but it was not anger at the world for a change. It was all in anticipation of the race.
The main hanging point was not where I expected. Drinius accepted my idea for the wager, with only a slight modification. The race prize would be the offspring of the two onageri, and we agreed to a breeding of five over fifteen years, that each of us would get two of the offspring at least for our herds. The bet was for that fifth foal, or in truth, the first one and the order in which we would gain our prizes.
No, it was the course that we argued long about. Drinius trusted not his kinsmen from the islands, nor any of the other mercenaries in the town. The race to the Anvil was normally with even the best onageri a full hebdoma, with a circuit of the Anvil and its broken lava flows. That course was fraught with dangers, and not as visible to the towns folk, and would leave me with an exhausted mount afterwards. No, we came up with a different, and still daunting course. One we had raced once here ourselves. The riders, and as I would not ride my onagera, Drinius had offered to have a different person ride Pulvis, would race to the butte two days east and a bit south of Pelorí, and visible from town. Then the riders would perform the trial of the riders, and climb the butte to retrieve a small flag to prove their own skills out of saddle, and return to the saddle for the race to the west ending at the field of boulders that marked the bend of the Seranarum from its flow to the northwest to the west-southwest.
And that end spot that was fortuitously on our path south to Rahab and my friend Umbradinor. I began to wonder just how close to not just disowning, but to taking an open stance against his family he was. This was moving us forward, costing us not a hebdoma or more for the race others would have anticipated, but only a few days at most. It was not like Drinius, this not taking advantage of some weakness of his opponent. Normally our haggling would have lasted days, dragging out the excitement and anticipation, as well as giving the bettors many chances to wager not just on the race, but the terms, and many other things leading up to the race.
But we had a schedule to keep, so Drinius and I had one of our well known haggling sessions there at the table we had so often during my days in the town before. We yelled, we postured, we made threats of spilling the drink of the other. Hells, we even settled a few conditions of the race by drinking games, and I seemed to hold my own. By evening's fall, all but the challenge had been set. The challenge was something many loved, some feat of daring, skill or strength the rider had to perform at the mid point or each turn of the race. By this time we had settled away from the table over to a few large chairs by the fireplace. The tavern was packed, so much that many drinks had to be handed in and out to the crowd gathered in the street. Bets were being made, the names of the steeds involved were known to all by that time.
I snuck in a few bets of my own, when only Ringelius was guarding me. Some with his help and knowledge, several without, as I still wanted a few coins and treasures kept from him and the others. Mostly him on one bet, though.
No comments:
Post a Comment