Chapter 10: Poisoned Daggers
Karrow turned his perpetual scowl onto Hezron Uriah. Anyone else would have withered under that glare, but this one was made of equally fierce stuff. The psyonomancer was yet again reminded of the danger in keeping such powerful minions.
“Garius Rabba failed us, then,” said the baron.
“Betrayed us,” replied Hezron neutrally. “He is leading them to us. It seems his loyalties are not so unshakable as the good emperor thought.”
Karrow nodded, turning away, letting his fingers play idly with trinkets in his deep pockets. “He poses a threat, in this regard. Rabba is a feared and respected man; those who know him will not take arms against him readily. And if the emperor catches wind of his betrayal . . .”
“He may catch wind of yours,” finished Hezron coolly. Karrow’s frown deepened, but he did not contest the statement. Garius Rabba was a wild card; altruists always were, insofar as they actually were altruists, anyway. If Garius Rabba was brought into imperial custody, he would be questioned, and he would release information that could seriously damage the baron’s credibility. Not to mention the dangers posed, dangers which went far beyond threats to reputation, in the elves and in Phasmatis.
So, Garius Rabba had to die, and soon. Karrow had hoped it would happen on its own, out on the Aldarian battlefield, where he could stand clear of the messy affair. Not so, but no matter. The psyonomancer had plenty of ways to make people die.
“Twelve oni,” said Karrow. “Tatula. Send them to intercept our friends before they reach the next city.”
“It shall be done,” said the liltu with a sarcastic bow. Then, he was gone.
Karrow did not wait for Hezron to leave. He turned immediately to the battle-plans scattered on his table, scratched over several creased maps. He had to wage a war, punish a traitor, and prepare to face the two greatest enemies to his plans alive. The Tatula were among the best assassins at his disposal, a deadly clan of lizard men that fought with infallible skills and fatal, poisoned daggers. They were efficient and reliable, the baron knew that, but he was not at ease. Talstran and Phasmatis both hated these tuatara, and would employ everything in their power to destroy the creatures. At best, Karrow only hoped to slow his enemies down, hardly to stop them. He needed time to deal with the generals, and communicating with them took energy over such a considerable distance. If and when his enemies reached the emperor’s castle, Karrow would be forced to leave the Tamian soldiers to their own devices, possibly for quite some time, and he needed them prepared well in advance for that. Taking on enemies such as the ranger and the kensai, he knew, would amount to a war all its own.
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Twilight was deepening when the company heard the rush of Akeron, the largest river in Ikinzar. It emerged, wide and powerful, from a shallow vale, bending near the road they traveled, and then turning away. Rivulets broke off from it in several places, feeding into small lakes or little stands of young trees. In the vale ahead, just outside of the travelers’ sight, was the next major city, Illaraz. It had once been the capital of Ikinzar, the seat of the monarch before the Tamian Empire was formed. Since that time, most political power had been dissolved from Illaraz, founders of the empire feeling that strong remnants of the old government might give symbolic backbone to potential, perhaps inevitable, rebellion. Still, Illaraz continued to boom commercially, and the center of the empire’s clerical ordinance remained an important and respectable place on the map.
Garius Rabba and the others passed an old, but still functioning, mill, the huge wheel creaking wearily as it turned. A farmhouse stood further out on the horizon, tall crops growing around it. Mildly curious, an old stray cat followed them, watching with bright, unblinking eyes. The wind was pleasantly cool after the long day, the heat of the sun growing more fierce as summer deepened.
“We’ll not make Illaraz before sundown,” noted Gar. “Might as well stop and make camp here. No point in trying to make it past the night watch. They tend to be rather grouchy.”
In a divot on the side of the road, they set up camp, tying down their horses and building a modest fire. As usual, Talstran and Phasmatis volunteered for the first watch, since they slept so little anyway. In a few moments, the others were asleep, except perhaps for Dartellis. He was lying with his back away from the others, quiet, but odds were good that he was not able to sleep.
Phasmatis was speaking on some idle matter, when Talstran turned his fierce eyes, one green and one blue, on the swordsman, and said, “Something has been troubling me, lad.”
“What, master?”
The ranger was quiet for a moment, then said, “I do not think you need call me master any longer, but if you feel you must, it is well with me. That aside . . . I am concerned over the event the other day, with Gwynera.”
“Oh,” said Phasmatis, and his silence in the moments following was heavy with shame.
“Lad, I know you fairly well. You’ve always had a bit of a temper, but it rarely outweighed your senses and never overrides your discipline. At least, not until then. I can’t believe that you would act so mindlessly. It’s the most uncharacteristic thing I’ve ever seen you do.”
The kensai looked at his folded hands. “I am ashamed of it, beyond how I know to say.”
“What’s at work in you, lad?”
The phrase was metaphorical, but Phasmatis blanched at it nonetheless. Indeed, what was at work in him was a better question than the ranger realized. When the swordsman couldn’t answer, Talstran sighed and patted his shoulder.
“We all lose our temper, I suppose. I should have let the matter lie.”
“No.” Anger simmered in the swordsman’s voice, but it wasn’t directed towards Talstran. “Most lose their temper. But not I. I am a kensai. I must always have control, must never let any emotions get the better of me. For my order, Talstran, losing one’s temper is no excuse and is never acceptable, you know that.” He paused, then shook his head. “It’s more than that, master. I didn’t just lose control of my emotions, and what I lost then, I’m still losing now, and I fear that at some point, I will never be able to recover it. I am losing myself . . . to this curse, and to the killer it punishes along with me.”
Talstran’s expression did not ridicule or belittle the swordsman’s fears, but regarded him with profound concern. “You have waged this war inside you for how long?”
“Since Iron Hawk, when their accursed wizard turned me into his pet assassin, and then more so, when the curse was lain upon me by . . .” He laughed self-derisively. “I could pass the training of the world’s greatest swordsmen, but I cannot even control my own mind. Of course, I had it under control, more or less, thanks to the help of the Four Kensai, but it was by no means resolved. And when I fought Draven, I . . . he broke something in me, changed something so that the assassin almost broke free.”
“The assassin?” echoed Talstran, puzzled.
“It’s like a second will inside me,” said the kensai in a low, pained voice, as if each word hurt him physically, “a wordless entity that shares nothing of my conscience. It terrifies me.”
The rainforest-elf sighed, feeling rather inadequate. “Your troubles run deeper than I know how to heal, lad. But whatever you will need of me, ask it.”
“Draw your sword!” demanded Phasmatis suddenly.
“What?” replied Talstran, bewildered, who then ducked in shock as the kensai came at him with his blade. He thought for an instant that the swordsman had again lost control, but realized differently when he saw that Phasmatis was trading blows with a crimson-garbed warrior. The elf looked around, and realized that they were being surrounded.
Lifting his double-bladed sword, Talstran ran over to his friends and shook them awake. He had not time to make sure that they were ready, for the attackers were upon their camp. Turning away from a bleary Garius Rabba, the ranger turned to see three of the crimson warriors standing before him. In an instant his keen perceptions took in their every aspect; poison-dripping daggers, close-fitting leather armor, hidden faces, and X-marked sashes over their shoulders. Tuataras sent by Ex’Nion. Talstran grimaced, and raised his sword to block the first blow. One blade was still ringing when he spun the dual-sided weapon, darting inside of the oni’s second strike, and then the elf passed the creature without pause. Confused, the spidery lizard man looked down at its belly, to see acidic blood spilling out quickly, corroding the red leather. Then, it collapsed to the earth, motionless.
The other two were upon Talstran instantly. Smarter than their fallen comrade, they faced him together, circling around and striking in synchronization from two sides at the ranger. He had to keep a furious pace to match their blows, his double-bladed sword spinning and flashing in the light of the campfire. The clap of metal on metal grew louder, and the elf, as incredibly fast and strong as he was, could feel himself sweating from the effort. Tuatara were as a rule stronger than any human foe, and among them the oni were some of the very best fighters. And Talstran knew he could never let his guard falter, for if he did, their poisonous blades would end his life without pause.
The ranger had found no openings in his enemies’ defenses; they were capable fighters, experienced and skilled, and worked well together. But suddenly, though he had made no headway against them, one crumpled to the earth. Startled, the lizard man hesitated for a single, fleeting moment, quite long enough for Talstran. He brought his blade in swiftly, ripping open the oni’s throat, freeing the blade and turning the weapon around, slamming the other blade between his foe’s ribs. Talstran extracted the sword, then turned to look at his other enemy. The tuatara lay on the earth, unmoving, a black arrow bristling from one grisly temple.
Talstran looked up to search for Dartellis. The other, younger ranger had dropped his bow in favor of a short sword and a dagger, for the oni had closed in, their ranks battering the small company. Gleebeck was fighting with astounding skill, the little gnome brandishing a long-sword (long for him, anyway), and shouting, “Well, well, you smarmies!” as he jabbed fiercely at ankles and calves. Garius Rabba, with all the calm and skill of a war veteran, was slowly picking apart the two oni assaulting him. Neither of those lizard men were very experienced; they fought well, but not with the foresight of battle-hardened warriors, so they had found a dangerous enemy in the captain. His ferocity was intense, born of a deep hatred for these creatures, despising their role in the war and the one who commanded them.
Gwynera’s druidic powers, as usual, afforded her with more defensive techniques than offensive, but she was very creative with her power. A thorny vine had wrapped itself around each of her wrists, becoming living, thrashing, deadly whips that snapped from her and cut open lizard flesh in ragged, painful wounds. Of the company, though, she was still the least suited for battle, simply because the offices of war had not been the focus of her training. But the woman was tough and determined, and the oni quickly became wary of the druidess.
None there could match the sheer prowess displayed by Phasmatis, though. He moved like liquid steel, a vindictive force of nature that the tuatara could not escape. One oni rushed him from the side, and Phasmatis met him easily, his blade slipping into the lizard man’s eye, through its grey matter, and then ripping out to face the next enemy. A crimson fist clutched a poisoned dagger, raised and ready to plunge it into the kensai’s neck. Phasmatis lopped off the creature’s head, then his sword flashed. The oni stood looking at him, blinking.
“You’re dead,” explained Phasmatis helpfully.
The tuatara nodded, and slipped to the earth.
Phasmatis felt old pains resurrected at the sight of these oni. By their fighting style, he knew them as Tatula, members of the same clan who had come and destroyed his childhood home. His vows kept him from killing members of the seven races, and among other races exercising mercy as often as possible. Tuatara were not among the seven races, and at the moment, the kensai felt no mercy. He felt rage, and let his aggression play at the point of his sword. Tuatara fell at the kensai’s side, garish wounds ending their violent lives.
The battle was hard-fought, those twelve tuatara more dangerous enemies than the some thirty Tamian soldiers they had faced days ago. A little over an hour later, the camp fire was spilled over and ruined, two of the horses had run off, and much of their supplies had been damaged, but they had won. The tuatara lay slain, and the company stood; none of them had fallen. They gathered together to assess wounds. Gleebeck was full of scratches, his face and body bloody, but he was only superficially hurt, thankfully. Dartellis had suffered almost no danger at all, save a black eye, and the worst injury Talstran had sustained was a bite on his forearm. It hurt and bled profusely enough, but it was hardly anything fatal. Phasmatis had escaped the battle unscathed.
“Gwynera, if you have the strength, please call back our horses,” the kensai was asking as he turned back to her. He gasped when he saw that the front of her garb was flowered thickly with blood. Her usually bright eyes were clouded with pain and delirium. Both Phasmatis and Talstran went to her at once.
“Their daggers pierced your flesh?” the ranger asked with urgency. She nodded, holding her stomach. He grimaced as he realized how deeply wounded she was. “Get her on a horse. We’ve got to get moving at once. She’s been poisoned, and no poison is so deadly as that of the tuatara.”
“The priests of Illaraz can cure her,” said Garius Rabba, “they have the necessary medicines. But we will have to move fast.”
Gently, Phamsatis lifted Gwynera onto his horse, for hers was one that had bolted. Already she was growing drowsy, weaker from loss of blood and the fast-acting poison in her system. They broke camp quickly, and headed towards the city, Dartellis and Phasmatis walking and the kensai leading Gwynera’s horse.
“How long do we have to go?” Phamsatis asked of Garius Rabba.
“Two or three hours,” he replied solemnly.
The kensai nodded. He hoped they could make it in time, they had to. He remembered, some ten years ago, as his friend Teyber saved him from Blade Sanctuary’s slaughter. Teyber was a monk in training, and he had died from the same poison Gwynera was now infected with. That brave young warrior had been half-orc, and his powerful constitution and unyielding will had given him enough strength to carry Phasmatis to safety. The kensai had lost his friend then, and the grief had never left him. Now the role was reversed, and he knew he could not fail his sister. He refused to.
Phasmatis fed Gwynera herbs he carried with him, a gift he had carried since his stay with the barbarians to the west, in the angry land known as the Wilds. They did not have the power to cure her, but they kept her temperature down and her pain dulled while they traveled.
She leaned forward, her head resting against the horse’s soft mane, sleep heavy in her eyes. Phasmatis kept his hand on her, comforting her, for he saw the fear she was trying not to show.
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Hezron Uriah watched as the company approached Illaraz, a wry smile on his thin, ghastly face. He was impressed, he had to admit it, and it wasn’t easy to impress the sort of man, or thing, he was. He looked from his secret perch down upon the travelers, upon the wounded druid girl, the angry elven youth, the grim experienced ranger, the affable soldier, the deliberate, confused gnome, and upon the masked swordsman, and felt something he had forgotten he ever needed. He felt hope.
Well? demanded a distant voice. The Lilith suppressed a chuckle. The psyonomancer hated contacting him mentally, for it always infuriated Karrow to touch a mind as fierce and strong as his own. Indeed, Hezron’s mind had become his last sanctuary from the baron, a sanctuary he had compromised as little as possible. It had not been easy to do, with the psyonomancer clawing at his brain for endless hours, trying to conquer his spirit and destroy his rational faculties to make him another simple puppet. But Hezron Uriah could not be so easily broken, not like some mere human. And it filled him with gleeful, dark satisfaction to know how it irked Karrow so to be reminded of his failure in this respect, and told him just how desperate the baron was feeling to initiate telepathic communication. Such desperation in Karrow was, thought Hezron Uriah with a terrifying grin, a most lovely advantage. He would have to monitor that toehold most carefully.
Well? urged the soundless voice, now with more force and impatience.
They destroyed all twelve tuatara, master, replied Hezron calmly. He chuckled softly at the mental notes of rage that resounded over the psychic connection.
And what of them? Did they suffer no harm at all?
The druid girl was hurt seriously, poisoned. They will seek to stay at the cathedral, where I cannot follow them.
It was Karrow’s turn to chuckle, and he let it reverberate telepathically to Hezron. Ah, such ironies, once-priest Uriah. Stop these fools. Kill them yourself if you have to, but do not let them reach the cathedral. Perhaps, in this, you may redeem yourself of old failures.
Then, the connection was broken, and Hezron’s grin returned with greater ferocity. Redeem himself. Yes, yes, perhaps he could.
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Phasmatis and his companions arrived at the city. The wall was high and grim, though less imposing than the one around the empire’s borders. The dirt road was dusty, the stone was old and grey, the guards were lazy and bored. Tufts of smoke spiraled into the sky from within Illaraz. Talstran, Dartellis and Gleebeck had agreed to wait outside until Gwynera was safely in the hands of the priests; they could not risk slowing her down with their presence if the guards gave Gar any trouble. The heavy gate rose with a chorus of creaking mechanics, and Phasmatis led his sister’s mount inside, behind Garius Rabba.
The druidess had worsened in their two hour or so ride. Her temperature was rising despite the kensai’s herbs, and the preliminary aches and pains the poison caused were becoming more distressing. It was only the beginning of much suffering before death, he knew, unless the priests’ cure was effective.
Gar knew the city well, as did anyone who knew their way around Ikinzar. As a boy, he had visited the priests of Illaraz many times with his parents. He stopped caring for priests when his parents had been murdered by Ikinzarian highway robbers on the way to the city’s cathedral. But he lead Gwynera to them anyway, knowing it was her best chance at living. Gar trusted nothing in Ikinzar, and so did not trust the priests or their dusty tomes, but he valued life, especially the life of his friends. And these people, since his brother had died, had become the best friends he could lay claim to.
The Cathedral of Illaraz was quite the sight to behold. It sat majestic against the base of a hill, an architectural king on its natural throne. Turrets and parapets and tall, beautiful stained-glass windows abounded, a shock of white stone walls perfectly hewn and meticulously scrubbed. It stood out all the stronger against its surrounding neighbors, dwarfing and showing lesser constructs of grey rock and brown wood. The courtyard of the cathedral displayed a magnificent statue of Seh, the Seventh Guardian who helped to found the priesthood, his feathered wings outspread over two kneeling human brothers, whom he was ostensibly ordaining. The artist who crafted the stone must have known the sky-elven guardian well, for he captured personality in that stone face, the air of a patient, loving protector, stern in his office of duty but acting with a heart of servitude and not of pride. Walking under that gaze, Phasmatis felt a weird, irrational but not unpleasant sense of security. Perhaps it was only the race of the portrayed guardian, perhaps it was more, but the winged elf reminded Phasmatis of Lanfilar, another sky-elf of fame, but one the kensai had met in person. Lanfilar had given Phasmatis aid in his time of distress, given him the words he needed to continue in his journey, and the Guardian Seh’s kind visage looked ready to impart similar, even grander, wisdom.
Suddenly, Gwynera’s horse whinnied and strained against the kensai’s grip. He held it firmly, forcing it to relax, and reached reflexively for Gwynera. She was nearly unconscious, but not hurt in any new way.
Garius Rabba, however, had been knocked clean off his feet, and lay unconscious on the ground, half on the stone walkway, and half on a patch of grass. Phasmatis tied the reigns to a bench just off the path, quickly drawing his sword and turning to look for the assailant. He saw trimmed bushes, other statues, a meticulously groomed lawn, but no attacker.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. If this was the routine greeting of the Priests of Illaraz, he was worried at the sort of aid they would lend Gwynera.
There was a slight rustle of movement, something fast the kensai sensed drawing near, and a hoarse voice said into the swordsman’s ear, “Me.”
Claws on human hands struck with incredible speed, but Phasmatis was not caught out. He spun and faced this sudden foe, elven steel dancing at his command, frustrating his ambusher’s attempts with ease. But this enemy was no novice, and pressed his attack tenaciously. Those black, knife-like claws sliced at his neck, his mask, his stomach, but the kensai brought his blade to bear too quickly, and stopped each blow well in advance. As they fought silently, Phasmatis studied his face. The creature was mannish, somewhat, but had a ghoulish, distorted aspect, as bestial as it was human. Its ears were membranous and veined, resembling bat ears to some degree, and its yellowish eyes with bulging red veins were feral and hungry. Slight fangs curled from black, cracked lips, and the creature’s face was ruddy and grim. It had pin-straight black hair, which was combed back to reveal a sharp, distinct widow’s peak, and hung evenly at shoulder-length. Each muscle was sinewy, thin but strung tightly, like a bundle of whipcords wearing a covering of ancient skin.
Then, the creature’s countenance blurred, and it was gone. Phasmatis felt the tingle of instinct, and he spun, throwing out his elven sword. The blade struck hard against the creature’s hand, breaking the skin but drawing no blood. They held that pose for a moment, each scrutinizing the other intensely. The kensai’s mask was unreadable, but his enemy’s stony face was not any more discernable.
Lifting his clawed hand from the sword, the attacker grinned, showing further his sharp incisors. “Very good.”
“Who are you?” Phasmatis asked angrily.
“A humble servant of your enemy,” noted the creature indifferently. “Get inside at once; the girl’s time runs short, and other enemies are on the way. We will meet again, I expect, should you stick to your foolish, or perhaps heroic, quest.”
With those words, the creature was gone, leaving Phasmatis understandably perplexed. His foes were not generally so amiable. And he had the distinct feeling that this one had not been trying to kill him, but to test him. For what, the sword saint could not imagine.
“Oh,” groaned Garius Rabba, climbing to his feet, “where is that slug who hit me? I am so tired of his meddling!”
“You know him?” asked Phasmatis incredulously.
“Oh, I know him, or it, whatever the monster is. He is called Hezron Uriah. He works for Karrow, but his true intentions are decidedly hard to read.”
“He fights well,” noted the kensai.
Garius Rabba gave the swordsman an unabashed, thunderstruck stare. “You fought him? You fought Hezron Uriah and didn’t die? . . . That never happens.”
“Well, it did today,” shrugged the kensai. “Come on, let’s get her inside, quickly.”
They walked the horse to the massive, elaborate entrance to the beautiful cathedral. Phasmatis felt awkward using the door knocker, for it seemed too fancy for use, but it made a solid, resounding knock that carried with import.
Gwynera shivered, and asked weakly, “Are we there?”
“We are,” said Phasmatis, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She smiled softly, exhausted and feverish, and succumbed to unconsciousness.
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