Marrone
josephbA subtle knife for those whom armies cannot conquer.
- from, The Instruments of Rule
Athalo daz Velym, Dictator of Zar Dratha, Archmagister of the Congress of Masters
- from, The Instruments of Rule
Athalo daz Velym, Dictator of Zar Dratha, Archmagister of the Congress of Masters
The sun crept toward the horizon, and the winding streets and alleys of Zar Vorgul fell into a premature twilight, shadowed by the city's massive walls.
Daigon stood on a parapet above the southerly Dreamer's Gate. Now that the wrathful sun was setting, a stream of Zar Vorgul's denizens flowed out of the city below him, headed west along the broad, sandy depression known as the Dust Way, fleeing the wrath of the Shashul.
Drathan magnates, magnificently adorned and mounted on their hulking gaan-lizards, plodded alongside commoners clutching desperately to water skins. Slaves and merchants and sorcerers, whoever was brave or foolish enough to risk the long, dry road to Ashfall risked it. Better the desert than the Rainlander's Forges.
But the emigrants were not the only traffic along the road. Soldiers in dark lamellar and light desert cloaks marched against the tide of fleeing civilians: Coward's Men, Beast Kings, Red Fangs, Goblin-Eaters. The sellswords of these and a half dozen other companies flooded into the emptying city.
The Archmagister had decreed that Zar Vorgul hold at all costs. The coffers of the Union were deep indeed, and the Ashlands and Red Desert had no shortage of men and mutants desperate or crazy enough to risk death for coin or titles or land in the fertile Drathan Delta. Or, in the case of Daigon himself, for the secrets of the Art.
The mercenary general was not watching the lines of refugees and soldiers flowing through the gate below him. His eyes were on the sand-blasted metal hulks settled in the desert just off the main road, a short ride from a lesser gate nearby. The Vitruvians had emerged from the wastes to set up camp earlier in the afternoon, meaning to milk every last coin from the city before the Shashul swept down on it.
Daigon doubted very much that there were such things as benevolent gods. But the arrival of the trader-clans made him open to reconsidering his skepticism. Their unique weapons, honed from the fossils of ancient horrors, would be vital against Saliszi steel.
But Daigon was not content with buying their swords.
Even before the last stall was erected and the first stars had begun to appear in the empty blue sky, the night market had filled. The distant shouts and the babble of voices mingling like river water with the faint strains of music, the sizzle of cooking food and the clink and clatter of goods changing hands. The canopies were well stocked, but fewer in number. Most notably, the glass furnaces were absent this year -- what little custom pieces were being wrought were being wrought high above in the bellies and work-baskets of the crafter’s homes.
He found the tent he sought nestled between two of the metal behemoth’s weathered, sand-caked legs. The elder thing loomed above them, its shadow spanning the desert, its long neck wrapped with climbing-ropes and thick red ribbon. Its enormous head lay half-lowered, the contents long ago shattered, replaced with misshapen layers of copper, glass and silk. The things were ancient, even by the lights of the Old Ones.
But that wasn’t why he was here.
At length, the robed nomad that had preceded him emerged from behind the veil. They inclined their helm once, and withdrew, face invisible beneath the scallop-shaped mask. The curtain flapped gently, marked with the scorpion-tail rune of Viitru-Ba, a coil of smoke unfurling from within.
Inside, the scene was half boudoir, half arsenal. Piles of luxurious cushions heaped around racks of cruel and intimate weapons.
The Intoxicatrix sat cross-legged with her back to him, before a low table facing an elaborate tapestry. Miniature braziers, cut through with old Vitruvian runes, flanked the makeshift altar, packed with glowing coals, and a dark stone idol, small but intricate, sat between them, wrought perversely into some impossible, half-human shape. Something dark glistened on its claws, and Daigon didn’t feel the need to guess what it was.
As the curtain fell behind him, the enclosure was cast in hazy twilight, the air a dizzying soup of incense and perfumed oils. The red glow of the braziers gave an unearthly feel to the scene, casting the woman’s dancing shadow far larger than its twin, burning deep red runes into the tent’s silken walls.
There was a thin, songlike keen as the Envenomer dragged a white-glass dagger along a length of cuttlebone, sharpening it beyond a razor’s edge. Firelight flickered at its edge, glinted from the tips of carved glass nails. She did not turn around.
“I know you,” the words trickled slowly from her lips, like poisoned nectar, “The Coward. Why do they call you that, Coward?”
"I fled a battle. A long time ago in a place far from here," said Daigon in his quiet, shaking voice, "but a thing like that, there's no leaving it behind."
He ran a hand through his black, sweat-soaked hair, pushing it away from his brow. His pale eyes glittered in the gloom.
"I've wanted to meet you for a long time. You have an unsettling reputation," he said, only the hint of a smile creasing his gaunt and weathered face, "I knew the father of your son, when I was young. A reckless man."
There was an ear-perforating krak as the glass blade snapped off in Malkut's hand. The aftersong rang in the ears like a musical hangover, a few stray shards pealing as they struck metal or wood. A dark trickle of blood glistened at her closed fist.
"Yes," she said, mildly, her voice betraying nothing more than its first, soft introduction, “He was.”
She twisted her neck to look him in the eyes for the first time, painted and beautiful, regarding him a moment in silence before sliding her body to follow suit. She drew one of her silk scarves from her throat, winding it around her hand, slowly and deliberately, as though doing nothing more than painting her nails. The weapons in the tent still throbbed with the sub-aural hum of split glass, setting teeth on edge. There was no question he was playing a very dangerous game.
“The Viitru have no word for cowardice,” she continued after a heartbeat. “Interesting. Don’t you think?”
She gestured fluidly to the reptile skins laid opposite her own, in unspoken invitation to sit.
"No cowards when there's no place to run. Even a frightened man chooses death over the desert," said Daigon. He eased himself to the ground, knees cracking quietly, "except for me I guess."
"Yes. Here you are," she said, lowly, "In the desert....and facing death again."
It was unclear whether she was referring to the invasion or herself. She tied off the makeshift bandage, slowly flexing her hand. "Perhaps it follows you."
"Perhaps I seek it out," he said, "and take pleasure in denying it victory, again and again. Pleasure, sadly, does not bring me here."
“A child could figure out why you’re here.” She watched him a moment longer, her eyes moving over his face, emotions leashed. She leaned over, tossing something into the brazier, where it flared with vibrant orange light. “Talk.”
"The Salished, if they do not feed you to their fires, will subject you," said Daigon, "You do not love much, I think, but you love your people. Your people depend on the Union."
“Oh, you‘ll have to do better than love. How desperate is your master?"
"As desperate as the circumstances require," said Daigon, "I would heed his example."
"If the Shashul sees us taking sides in this war, the caravans would be marked for death. You ask a very great deal of blood, and I can’t imagine what you might have to offer us that would outweigh it. "
"To the Viitru I can offer that which the Rainlanders will take from you, your ancestral freedoms," said Daigon, "to you, Malkut the Envenomer, I have a different offer..."
