More Alistair
CHAPTER ONE
HEAT AND LIGHT battered at his senses, the flame singing his flesh, threatening to roast him alive. He closed his eyes, focused on the wash of sound, followed it to the vibration, feeling the pulsing current of the fire. He could taste it now, as air in his lungs. Alistair took a deep breath, filling his lungs with burning air. Slowly, he opened his eyes and released his breath in a steady count of ten.
The cell was dark now, with only a sliver of light coming through a slot at the top of the stone door. Alistair sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. His torso was slick and the room suddenly felt cold. He uncrossed his legs and rose, careful not to strain himself, but surprisingly felt repleished. The power stolen from the fire seethed inside of him, bringing a smile to his lean face. He placed a palm against the door, feeling the smoothness of it beneath his fingertips. With just the barest push of force, Alistair willed the door and it obliged. Stone rasped against stone as the massive door groaned open.
Alistair stepped out into the corridor, full of confidence, only to feel his feet fly out from under him. He was floating for just a second, long enough to react accordingly. He twisted his body in air, catching himself on his palms as he hit the ground, feeling a gust of wind rush across his back.
Bursts of wind raced back and forth down the corridor, pummeling at him as he rose. He stabilized himself, feeling the air brutalize his body. But air was nothing but fuel inside of an inferno, and he consumed it as such. He was a living flame, a brand through the darkness as he neared the final door. He reached out to it, opening it with ease. He mounted the steps warily, not willing to be caught offguard a second time. Soon, Alistair grew aware of daylight pouring down into the stairway. Soon, he could taste fresh air, feel sunlight beating against his bare chest.
As he stepped out of the passage, into the light of day, he found himself surrounded by five men in grey robes, bands of crimson edging the hooded cowls that obscured their faces. The one in front, small of stature, took a step towards him. “You have passed through. You are stripped of the devices of the Acoyltes, you come before us bared. The final Trial is complete. Please, step forward, Initiate.”
Alistair stepped forward, oblivious to the stone and razorgrass biting into the bare soles of his feet. The men closed the circle around him, one of them draping a charcoal grey robe over his shoulders. The small man spoke again, his voice akin to a swarm of angry hornets. “We name you Magi. We greet you, brother of the Infinite Web. We name you, Alistair of the Grey.”
*~*
THE WIND AND SEA flung salt and spray into his face, bringing him out of memry and back to the world. The prow of the frigate rose and fell with the turbulent waters that threatened to tumble the warship. In the distance, Alistair could see storm clouds looming, like grotesque, obese demons determined to rain furty down on their vessel. Somewhere, the bosun was screaming at the crew to tie down the sails, to secure the lines. Alistair could feel the raging power of the storm, the raw energy rippling across his senses. He turned his head to the man on his right. “This is a fell squall, Pollac.”
The man nodded, an exhulted smile on his face. His blue eyes were bright with life, and the lashing of the wind growing fiercer as they headed straight into the storm. “Bloody spectacular, isn’t it? Always love a good storm.”
Alistair gave him a rough one-handed shove, but failed to move his friend. “You and your brother, both fools with a deathwish. Do you think he cares where or not we live through this?”
It was Pollac’s turn to shove and Alistair had to fight to keep his balance. Pollac laughed, a great booming sound that echoed against distant thunder. “Of course he cares, Alistair. That’s why we keep you around.”
Alistair sighed lightly. True, it was his duty to defend against the elements. And it wasn’t as if it were a grueling task, he just wished he didn’t need to do it so frequently. “I supposed I should attend to my duties then, shouldn’t I?”
Pollac only laughed as he turned back to the sea. Alistair carefully made his way towards the base of the forward mast, wrapping his gloved fingers around the thick rope of the rigging. He pulled himself upward, placing the toes of his boot into the nets, climbing against the wind Rain began to fall, at first only a soft misting in the winds, but soon fell fat, fast and heavy. Alistair’s hair was plastered against the side of his face, his heavy woolen cloak snapping wildly with the storm. He quickly and nimbly made the ascent to the top of the mast and turned to face the oncoming tempest.
He entwined his arms and legs into the rigging, gripping the ropes tightly. Alistair surrendered himself to the rushing onslaught of the storm. The power boiled and raged around him, engulfing him. The static crackling of the lightning was palpable on his tongue. He thought back to the winds from the Trial. He was fire, he would not be consumed. He drank in the furious energy, and forced his will ffrom inside out, surrounding the ship, protecting it. No rain wet its deck, no wind ruffled its sails. As if from far away, Alistair heard the sounds of a hundred oars hit the water, and the frigate pressed forward.
It took nearly six hours for the ship to pass through the storm and, by the time the danger had passed, Alistair felt as if he would drop from the nets like a stone. He gathered his body to him and somehow managed to climb down without injury, and he was barely aware of making it to his cabin.
When he woke again, it was light out and from the gentle rock of the boat, the seas were calm. He only hoped that they weren’t becalmed. He didn’t know if he had the strength to call a wind. Sitting up, he realized that he must’ve disrobed before he had passed out from exhaustion. A quick survey of the cabin confrimed the thought. His sodden clothes were in a pile on the floor, abandoned along with his cloak, boots and knife belt.
Alistair heaved a sigh as he reached for the small wooden box that rested on the tbale next to the bed. Opening it, he inhaled the earthy musk of dried tabac mixed with a few other herbs. He lifted out a thin piece of vellum, dropping generous pinch of the mixture onto the paper and rolled it into a neat cylinder. Holding it gently between his lips, he conjured a tiny flame on the tip of his index, lighting the finger of tabac before the flame vanished.
As he enjoyed the first smoke of the day, Alistair searched the wardrobe for something relatively clean to wear. He pulled on a pair of loose grey leggings, made of a supple doeskin, and a short tunic to match. Over that, a vest of boiled black leather, studded with rivets of hardened steel. He donned his boots, surprisingly dry, and buckled on his knife belt. The short dirk was secure in its sheath, and the pouch full of tabac seemed unharmed. Alistair considered the swordbelt hanging from a peg on the inside of the door, but thought better of it. He rolled a half dozen fingers, slipping them into the pouch, then donned a light woolen cloak of mottled greys.
As he stepped from the cabin, lighting another finger of tabac, hunger gnawed fiercely at his belly. It dawned on him to wonder how long he had been asleep, and as if plucked from his mind, a rich, smooth baritone answered him. “Three days, Alistair, and a good thing we ran into no more troubles.”
Alistair turned to see Aeveran’s warm smile greeting him. The Heir of the Thraid, like his brother Pollac, was an enthusiastic and incorrigibly mirthful sort of man at most times. Alistair clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Then you would have had to suffer the elements like the rest of the world, and been better for it. Please tell me that there’s food ready in the mess.”
The two men made their way to the galley in amiable silence. Alistair was amuesed at the wide berth they were given by the sailors. Few had probably ever seen royalty, let alone ate with them, and being near Magi made all men uncomfortable. The mess hall was empty except for a few crew members and of course Pollac, who looked to be heartily demolishing his second trencher full of stew.
Aeveran greeted his brother with a slap on the back as they sat down at the longtable. “I hope you left enough for the rest of the ship, little brother. The Captain tells me there are still a few days left before we reach port.”
Pollac smiled through a mouthful of stew, gesturing with his knife towards the kitchen. “Weve more than enough rations to see us to the White Coast and back to Reathuan Bay twice over, Your Highness, so quit bellyachin’ and break your fast.”
A wry smile touched Alistair’s lips, detecting the note of sarcasm in Pollac’s voice. One of the cooks brought over a tray, laying another five trenchers down on the table in front of the trio. They were a made of a dark, crusty bread, and filled with a rich beef and barley stew that smalled strongly of garlic. His stomach reminded him of its plight and he quickly put away two of the trenchers before turning away from the table. Aeveran had finished his own and both brothers were sipping from mugs full of steaming chicory.
Alistair stood up, stretching the muscles in his back. He cleared his throat to gain the attentions of the brothers Dunreath. “So in three day we’ll reach the White Coast and the port of Kesa.”
Aeveran nodded. “Yes, and from the port, its another several days of travel down the river Vharan into the heart of the Tyras’i jungles.”
Alistair smirked, recalling the long hours they’d spent pouring over maps, trying to get a rough understanding of this strange land. He sighed, sitting back down on the bench, his back to the table. “And the City of Night, the ruins of Vaarhlo, sits perched on the cliff wall of the green sea. We have no idea where that could be.”
Pollac looked up from his mug. “How about we just hire a local as a guide. Some hunter or spice gatherer who knows the region well.”
Alistair twisted to look at his friend, cocking an eyebrow. “Really, Pollac? Since when did you become fluent in Tyras’iin? I’m quite impressed.”
Pollac, chuckled and opened his mouth to speeak, but Aeveran cut him off. “Yet another reason why were so grateful for your presence, Alistair. You are a good friend to us, to share your many talents. Truly, we don’t deserve you.”
Alistair grumbled as he lit a roll of tabac, glaring at his compatriots. “What ever would you do without me?”
Pollac let out a great booming laugh that echoed in the confines of the galley. “Blunder around until something exciting happened, most likely.”
*~*
TRUE TO HIS promise, the captain of the Fair Lyanna, a stalwart old bear of a man named Martin, joined them on the deck of the ship as they sailed into harbor three days later. He promised the trio that he’d return in three weeks as agreed upon, and then wait at port for a full week. If he hadn’t heard word from them in that time, the captain assured them that he would send an expedition into the jungles after them. Aeveran thanked the man, accepting his vigorous handshake, then the trio took their leave of the ship and their first steps on Tyras’i soil.
Kesa was a moderately sized harbor, with dozens of ships in port to trade with the wealthy Tyras’i merchants. Alistair thought he saw a few ships of Thraid, a few of the low slung galleys from the Saa’Laivani as well, slaves in manacles being herded off thes hips. He watched several of the small Tyrais’i men struggle with a pallet, heavily-laden with spices, trying to carry it up the gangplank of great Khedeshi war galleon while one of the grizzly, sallow-skinned Khedeshi screamed at them in his harsh tongue.
The buildings at first seemed strange, small daub-and-wattle buildings made from white mud and hide, next to expansive warehouses of stone and timber. Off in the distance, on the hills that rose from the Coast, a majestic white manse overlooked the city. Even from afar, it looked grand, a gleaming pearl rising above the everyday chaos of the trading hub. He pointed it out to Aeveran. “I think maybe we should start there.”
Aeveran nodded in agreement. The captain had been kind enough to leave them with three horses, already saddled and ready. They mounted and rode slowly through unfamiliar territory. The air smelled of the sea, bu also of the tang of spices and the faint odor of a nearby charnal house. Pollac held the reins in one hand, the other resting loosely on the hilt of his longsword. Alistair was attentive, trying to gain the feel of this new place, attune himself to its unfamiliar patterns.
The ride through the city was slow, and though three armed men in grey cloaks didn’t seem to draw notice from the crowds, Alistair still couldn’t shake the sensation that they were being watched. As they approached the manse on the hill, the surrounding area grew more affluent. Instead of mud and timber, there were stately homes built in white brick and ornately carved stone, all detailed with gold. Groups of men in loose white tunics marched past them bearing polearms, but did not give Alistair or his friends a second glance.
As they neared the base of the hill, Alistair found himself impressed by the wall that surrounded it, white marble raised twenty feet high and surrounding the entire circumference of the hill. A gate of black iron stood in stark contrast, barring the road and guarded by a dozen of the short Tyras’i soldiers. All wore the same white linen tunics, but with crimson sashes across their chests, and all but one were armed with poleaxes. One man, who may have stood chest-high against Alistair, wore a crimson cloak and a large, curved sword at his hip. This man, an officer most likely, stepped forward. When he spoke in the rolling Thraidthr tongue, it was thick and halting, as if his tongue had swollen. “What businesss do you have with the Prince of Kesa?”
Aeveran drew himself up in the saddle and looked down on the small, chicory-skinned man with all the nobility he could muster in the sweltering heat. “I have come to pay my respects to His Highness. You may tell him that Aeveran of Reath, Heir to the High Seat of the Thraidthr calls at his gate.”
Alistair watched as the soldiers muttered to themselves in the thick, guttural tongue of the Tyras’i. The officer considered the three of them for a moment before turning back to his men. After a short conversaton, two of the men turned and pushed the gate open. The officer returned his attention to the trio and spoke again in his halting accent. “Leave your horses and your weapons. I will take you to the Prince.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
POLLAC WANTED TO take hold of the small Tyras’i officer, lift him off the ground and shake him repeatedly, but Alistair slipped between them to intervene. He listened as the two men argued fluidly in the thick-tongued language of Tyras, watching as Alistair smoothly repressed a grimace of irritation. After what seemed to be a rather brief exchange, Alistair looked back at Pollac. “Our friend here insists that we leave our weapons with the horses. He claims that it is unlawful for outsiders to bring weapons before the Prince.”
Pollac offered a glance towards Aeveran, his fingers flexing around the hilt of the longsword hanging from his hip. “Alistair, explain to this…friend…that we accompany the Heir to the Thraid, whom we are sworn to defend. Explain to this man that it is mighty difficult to defend someone without a weapon. Explain that I will cut him down, should he try and take my blade.”
Alistair shrugged and resumed his debate with the soldier, who must’ve understood Pollac’s body language and now gripped his own sword tightly. After a conversation that involved a lot of wild gesturing and frantic pointing towards the two brothers, as well as a fair amount of yelling, Alistair sighed in relief. “Our friend tells me that if we try anything suspicious or untoward to His Majesty the Prince’s person, his men will gut us where we stand. He did agree to let us keep our weapons though.”
The Tyras’i officer scoweld and turned sharply towards the entrance to the manse, beckoning for them to follow. Aeveran just shook his head at his brother as he passed, and Alistair only sighed. Pollac cinched tight his swordbelt and followed, wary of treachery.
The brilliant sun beat down on Tyras, and Pollac, unused to the tropical climate, was beginning to regret the thick leather armor and wool cloak he wore. Of the three of them, only Alistair seemed unaffected by the sweltering heat. The air was so thick with humidity that Pollac figured he’d have an easier time drinking than breathing.
As they climbed the steep stairs that led to the main plaza, he found that he longed for the crisp autumn weather along the coasts of Reath. Still, a little suffering was necessary on a venture, and it was bound to be interesting soon enough. He studied the great marble pillars that supported the roof of the manor as they walked past them, marvelling at the beautiy of the architecture. They glowed a brilliant white in the midday sun, highlighting a significant level of detail that had gone into the patterns of gold on the pillars. Some represented animals, others men and women in varying states of relaxation and sexual arousal. Such things were kept in private amongst the Thraid, though Pollac knew of similar works of art in the homes of the more artistically minded Thraidir nobles.
They passed into a large atrium, a lush garden full of palm trees and exotic, brightly colored flowers. Small birds flew back and forth across the plaza like shining blue jewels, and in the trees monkeys nattered at each other, creating a commotion.
In the center of the room, carved from the same white marble as the rest of the manor, was an ornate fountain depicting two beautiful women bathing each other in a pond. The nudity and blatant sexuality intrigued Pollac, who had never encountered such a brazen and shameless culture. Lush violets grew from the fountain, contributing to the decadence of the sight. Next to the fountain, reclining in stark contrast to the erotic fountain, was an immense man who could only be the Merchant Prince of Kesa.
The Prince was massive, nearly forty stone if he weighed near a pound. His skin was dark as pitch and he wore only a loingloth of white linen to cover his nether regions. Surrounding him were a group of slaves involved in various tasks. Two teenaged boys, possibly of Rhedeshi descent, were fanning the Prince with large palm fronds, while two stunningly attractive Tyras’i women rubbed scented oils into the folds of his obese flesh. As they approached, the officer knelt next to him, whispering into the fat merchant’s ear and glowering at the Thraidir.
Pollac glanced towards his brother and friend, gauging their reactions. Aeveran looked sober and regal, a bearing Pollac had seen him wear often while chastising nobles involved in petty disputes. Alistair, however, must’ve drawn his hood up to obscure his face while they climbed up to the atrium, and was focusing intensely on something. The Merchant Prince sat upright with the aid of the two females, showing teeth as white as the marble at his unexpected guests. He looked directly at Aeveran, his voice deep and smoky as he addressed tem. His command of the Thraidir tongue was clear, with only the traces of an accent. “It has been a great long time since the Royals of Thraid dared grace us with their presence. Tell us then what brings you before the Great Merchant Prince of Kesa, so boldy armed with blades and mysteries.”
Aeveran sketched a polite bow, nudging his brother to do likewise. Alistair remained motionless, his arms crossed underneath the mottled grey cloak he wore. Pollac bowed, slightly lower than his brother, keeping his eyes trained on the fat Prince. Aeveran took a step forward, his voice gracious and steady. “We thank His Greatness for gifting us with his attentions on such short notice, and we assure Him that we have no wish to brook offense.”
Aeveran gestured at Pollac as he spoke. “This man is my own brother, a sworn sword of the Prestige, and oathbound to protect me. My other companion is a Magi of the Infinite Web, also oathbound to my safety, but we assure His Greatness that our intentions are peaceful. We seek only the wisdom of the Great Merchant Prince of Kesa.”
The Prince looked thoughtful, then turned to the officer and whispered something to hm that Pollac could neither hear nor likely understand. The officer scowled deeply, growling something harshly, and began to argue with the Prince. Faster than so large a man had a right to be, the Prince struck the officer across the face with a reed switch. The blow split the soldier’s cheek open, and the man bowed low before taking his leave of the atrium.
The Merchant Prince issued a command to the slaves, who then hurriedly moved to obey. He turned back to the Thraidir, a wide smile on his face. Pollac thought he looked a lot like the cat that ate the canary. “Well, Prince of Thraid, what wisdom is it that you seek, that you would travel so far from your own lands?”
The slaves returned quickly with a table and one chair, as well as platters of fruit and smoked fish, and pitchers filled with the sweet, chilled Tyras’i wine that was bountiful in the coastal regions. Aeveran sat down at the table after a nod from Alistair. Pollac felt a rumble in his gut, but knew that none of the plentiful spread was meant for him. He distracted himself by gazing around the atrium, his eyes eventually landing on the two female slaves. They appeared to be healthy and well fed, the sunlight glistening on supple, oiled flesh.
Aeveran began to explain to the Prince why they had journeyed so far. “Rumours of an ancient city lost deep in the jungles of your country piqued my curiosity, Your Greatness. A city known as Vhaarlo, once a seat of the Magi, and so I mean to lead an expedition.”
The Prince nodded, listening as Aeveran told their story with as little detail as possible. Alistair stood a few steps behind, hood still raised, exhuding an aura of calm. The Heir and the Prince conversed back and forth, and Pollac contented himself with watching the slaves tend to the gardens of the plaza. The females could have been twins, with the olive skin and black hair common amongst the folk of southern Tyras. Their silver eyes revealed a simple grace and deeply rooted acceptance of their fate. The two women were nude except for simple silver chains around their necks and hips, symbols of their place among the slaves of the Merchant’s household. Their curves were svelte, bodies well-muscled from hard labor, the fur that covered their sex dark, lush and untrimmed. As they moved around on their hands and knees, their full, heavy breasts swayed with the movement, and when they turned away, he caught a glimpse of their netherlips hidden between the cheeks of their buttocks. The lust rose unbidden as his loins stirred to arousal, forcing Pollac to stare at the fat merchant in order to distract himself.
Alistair gave Pollac a look of bemusement, then turned his attention back to Aeveran and the Prince, who seemed to be finishing their discussion. An elderly slave dressed in a white linen robe entered carrying quill, ink and parchement, and the Prince quickly wrote out something. The slave rolled the parchment and handed it over to Alistair, who only nodded to Aeveran and the Prince. The Prince reclined back on the divan, beckoning to the twins on the floor. “Your brother is admiring the girls, Your Highness. His taste is most exquisite. They are fine bedslaves, trained well and skilled with many ways of pleasure. I would gladly sell them to you, for only a thousand gold links.”
Pollac repressed a shudder of revulsion, refusing to think of the Prince being pleasured in any fashion, but mustered a gracious smile and bowed low. “His Greatness is more than generous, but I could not accept it. They would be better off remaing where they will be appreciated.”
The Prince only laughed, quickly returning his gaze to Alistair as he fingered the sex of one slave. “As you wish. You’ll find the inn we spoke of just outside the gate of my palace. Present the owner with my writ and you will be granted accomodaties fit for a Mercant Prince. I will spread the word that you seek a guide to take you into the jungles, and to seek you in the morning. Gods of Fortune and Prosperity watch over you.”
*~*
MORNING GREETED POLLAC with a dull ache in his head and a sour taste in his mouth. Sitting up with a groan, he realized that he wasn’t alone in the featherbed. Lying next to him was a petite Tyras’i woman, completely nude but for the thin cotton sheet that covered her legs. Her skin was the color of chocloate, with fiery red hair strewn across the pillow. He smiled as he dressed, admiring her pert breasts and dark, hard nipples, remembering that he had offered to teach her the finer points of swordplay.
Pollac found his way out to the veranda, the harsh, bright sunlight further aggravating the pain behind his eyes. Aeveran and Alistair were listening to a tall Rhedeshi man as he auditioned to guide them. Pollac snorted as he sat down, whispering to Alistair. “This one would have us believe he has mapped the entire Southron Continent and the Shadowed East as well.”
Alistair chuckled. “And so have the dozen that came before him.” He gestured to the line of men hungry for foreign gold and adventure that waited restlessly on the patio. “I doubt even one of them could guide his way to his mother’s loins with a map and compass.”
Pollac only laughed and broke his fast from the trays of bred, fruit and cheese. The morning turned to early evening and they had yet to find a guide. Only a few candidates remained, none of whom seemed promising.
He watched as Aeveran dismissed the last man, a burly warrior, his bare chest laced with scars. While Aeveran turned to consult with his friends, the man drew a large war axe, preparing to strike the Heir. Pollac was on his feeth with his sword drawn, just in time to block the attack, though barely. He countered with a feint at the large man’s eyes, causing his foe to raise the axe enough to expose his chest. Pollac plunged the longsword through his opponent’s heart and out the other side with one clean thrust. As he withdrew the sword, the man slumped dead to the ground. “I guess that one didn’t like being rejected.”
The sound of clapping turned the heads of all three men to the back corner of the veranda. A thin, weathered Thraidir man sat smiling peaceably at them. “That is one of the Merchant Prince’s soldiers, and I’d wager that more are on their way. Best you come with me, Your Highness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
HEAT AND LIGHT battered at his senses, the flame singing his flesh, threatening to roast him alive. He closed his eyes, focused on the wash of sound, followed it to the vibration, feeling the pulsing current of the fire. He could taste it now, as air in his lungs. Alistair took a deep breath, filling his lungs with burning air. Slowly, he opened his eyes and released his breath in a steady count of ten.
The cell was dark now, with only a sliver of light coming through a slot at the top of the stone door. Alistair sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. His torso was slick and the room suddenly felt cold. He uncrossed his legs and rose, careful not to strain himself, but surprisingly felt repleished. The power stolen from the fire seethed inside of him, bringing a smile to his lean face. He placed a palm against the door, feeling the smoothness of it beneath his fingertips. With just the barest push of force, Alistair willed the door and it obliged. Stone rasped against stone as the massive door groaned open.
Alistair stepped out into the corridor, full of confidence, only to feel his feet fly out from under him. He was floating for just a second, long enough to react accordingly. He twisted his body in air, catching himself on his palms as he hit the ground, feeling a gust of wind rush across his back.
Bursts of wind raced back and forth down the corridor, pummeling at him as he rose. He stabilized himself, feeling the air brutalize his body. But air was nothing but fuel inside of an inferno, and he consumed it as such. He was a living flame, a brand through the darkness as he neared the final door. He reached out to it, opening it with ease. He mounted the steps warily, not willing to be caught offguard a second time. Soon, Alistair grew aware of daylight pouring down into the stairway. Soon, he could taste fresh air, feel sunlight beating against his bare chest.
As he stepped out of the passage, into the light of day, he found himself surrounded by five men in grey robes, bands of crimson edging the hooded cowls that obscured their faces. The one in front, small of stature, took a step towards him. “You have passed through. You are stripped of the devices of the Acoyltes, you come before us bared. The final Trial is complete. Please, step forward, Initiate.”
Alistair stepped forward, oblivious to the stone and razorgrass biting into the bare soles of his feet. The men closed the circle around him, one of them draping a charcoal grey robe over his shoulders. The small man spoke again, his voice akin to a swarm of angry hornets. “We name you Magi. We greet you, brother of the Infinite Web. We name you, Alistair of the Grey.”
*~*
THE WIND AND SEA flung salt and spray into his face, bringing him out of memry and back to the world. The prow of the frigate rose and fell with the turbulent waters that threatened to tumble the warship. In the distance, Alistair could see storm clouds looming, like grotesque, obese demons determined to rain furty down on their vessel. Somewhere, the bosun was screaming at the crew to tie down the sails, to secure the lines. Alistair could feel the raging power of the storm, the raw energy rippling across his senses. He turned his head to the man on his right. “This is a fell squall, Pollac.”
The man nodded, an exhulted smile on his face. His blue eyes were bright with life, and the lashing of the wind growing fiercer as they headed straight into the storm. “Bloody spectacular, isn’t it? Always love a good storm.”
Alistair gave him a rough one-handed shove, but failed to move his friend. “You and your brother, both fools with a deathwish. Do you think he cares where or not we live through this?”
It was Pollac’s turn to shove and Alistair had to fight to keep his balance. Pollac laughed, a great booming sound that echoed against distant thunder. “Of course he cares, Alistair. That’s why we keep you around.”
Alistair sighed lightly. True, it was his duty to defend against the elements. And it wasn’t as if it were a grueling task, he just wished he didn’t need to do it so frequently. “I supposed I should attend to my duties then, shouldn’t I?”
Pollac only laughed as he turned back to the sea. Alistair carefully made his way towards the base of the forward mast, wrapping his gloved fingers around the thick rope of the rigging. He pulled himself upward, placing the toes of his boot into the nets, climbing against the wind Rain began to fall, at first only a soft misting in the winds, but soon fell fat, fast and heavy. Alistair’s hair was plastered against the side of his face, his heavy woolen cloak snapping wildly with the storm. He quickly and nimbly made the ascent to the top of the mast and turned to face the oncoming tempest.
He entwined his arms and legs into the rigging, gripping the ropes tightly. Alistair surrendered himself to the rushing onslaught of the storm. The power boiled and raged around him, engulfing him. The static crackling of the lightning was palpable on his tongue. He thought back to the winds from the Trial. He was fire, he would not be consumed. He drank in the furious energy, and forced his will ffrom inside out, surrounding the ship, protecting it. No rain wet its deck, no wind ruffled its sails. As if from far away, Alistair heard the sounds of a hundred oars hit the water, and the frigate pressed forward.
It took nearly six hours for the ship to pass through the storm and, by the time the danger had passed, Alistair felt as if he would drop from the nets like a stone. He gathered his body to him and somehow managed to climb down without injury, and he was barely aware of making it to his cabin.
When he woke again, it was light out and from the gentle rock of the boat, the seas were calm. He only hoped that they weren’t becalmed. He didn’t know if he had the strength to call a wind. Sitting up, he realized that he must’ve disrobed before he had passed out from exhaustion. A quick survey of the cabin confrimed the thought. His sodden clothes were in a pile on the floor, abandoned along with his cloak, boots and knife belt.
Alistair heaved a sigh as he reached for the small wooden box that rested on the tbale next to the bed. Opening it, he inhaled the earthy musk of dried tabac mixed with a few other herbs. He lifted out a thin piece of vellum, dropping generous pinch of the mixture onto the paper and rolled it into a neat cylinder. Holding it gently between his lips, he conjured a tiny flame on the tip of his index, lighting the finger of tabac before the flame vanished.
As he enjoyed the first smoke of the day, Alistair searched the wardrobe for something relatively clean to wear. He pulled on a pair of loose grey leggings, made of a supple doeskin, and a short tunic to match. Over that, a vest of boiled black leather, studded with rivets of hardened steel. He donned his boots, surprisingly dry, and buckled on his knife belt. The short dirk was secure in its sheath, and the pouch full of tabac seemed unharmed. Alistair considered the swordbelt hanging from a peg on the inside of the door, but thought better of it. He rolled a half dozen fingers, slipping them into the pouch, then donned a light woolen cloak of mottled greys.
As he stepped from the cabin, lighting another finger of tabac, hunger gnawed fiercely at his belly. It dawned on him to wonder how long he had been asleep, and as if plucked from his mind, a rich, smooth baritone answered him. “Three days, Alistair, and a good thing we ran into no more troubles.”
Alistair turned to see Aeveran’s warm smile greeting him. The Heir of the Thraid, like his brother Pollac, was an enthusiastic and incorrigibly mirthful sort of man at most times. Alistair clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Then you would have had to suffer the elements like the rest of the world, and been better for it. Please tell me that there’s food ready in the mess.”
The two men made their way to the galley in amiable silence. Alistair was amuesed at the wide berth they were given by the sailors. Few had probably ever seen royalty, let alone ate with them, and being near Magi made all men uncomfortable. The mess hall was empty except for a few crew members and of course Pollac, who looked to be heartily demolishing his second trencher full of stew.
Aeveran greeted his brother with a slap on the back as they sat down at the longtable. “I hope you left enough for the rest of the ship, little brother. The Captain tells me there are still a few days left before we reach port.”
Pollac smiled through a mouthful of stew, gesturing with his knife towards the kitchen. “Weve more than enough rations to see us to the White Coast and back to Reathuan Bay twice over, Your Highness, so quit bellyachin’ and break your fast.”
A wry smile touched Alistair’s lips, detecting the note of sarcasm in Pollac’s voice. One of the cooks brought over a tray, laying another five trenchers down on the table in front of the trio. They were a made of a dark, crusty bread, and filled with a rich beef and barley stew that smalled strongly of garlic. His stomach reminded him of its plight and he quickly put away two of the trenchers before turning away from the table. Aeveran had finished his own and both brothers were sipping from mugs full of steaming chicory.
Alistair stood up, stretching the muscles in his back. He cleared his throat to gain the attentions of the brothers Dunreath. “So in three day we’ll reach the White Coast and the port of Kesa.”
Aeveran nodded. “Yes, and from the port, its another several days of travel down the river Vharan into the heart of the Tyras’i jungles.”
Alistair smirked, recalling the long hours they’d spent pouring over maps, trying to get a rough understanding of this strange land. He sighed, sitting back down on the bench, his back to the table. “And the City of Night, the ruins of Vaarhlo, sits perched on the cliff wall of the green sea. We have no idea where that could be.”
Pollac looked up from his mug. “How about we just hire a local as a guide. Some hunter or spice gatherer who knows the region well.”
Alistair twisted to look at his friend, cocking an eyebrow. “Really, Pollac? Since when did you become fluent in Tyras’iin? I’m quite impressed.”
Pollac, chuckled and opened his mouth to speeak, but Aeveran cut him off. “Yet another reason why were so grateful for your presence, Alistair. You are a good friend to us, to share your many talents. Truly, we don’t deserve you.”
Alistair grumbled as he lit a roll of tabac, glaring at his compatriots. “What ever would you do without me?”
Pollac let out a great booming laugh that echoed in the confines of the galley. “Blunder around until something exciting happened, most likely.”
*~*
TRUE TO HIS promise, the captain of the Fair Lyanna, a stalwart old bear of a man named Martin, joined them on the deck of the ship as they sailed into harbor three days later. He promised the trio that he’d return in three weeks as agreed upon, and then wait at port for a full week. If he hadn’t heard word from them in that time, the captain assured them that he would send an expedition into the jungles after them. Aeveran thanked the man, accepting his vigorous handshake, then the trio took their leave of the ship and their first steps on Tyras’i soil.
Kesa was a moderately sized harbor, with dozens of ships in port to trade with the wealthy Tyras’i merchants. Alistair thought he saw a few ships of Thraid, a few of the low slung galleys from the Saa’Laivani as well, slaves in manacles being herded off thes hips. He watched several of the small Tyrais’i men struggle with a pallet, heavily-laden with spices, trying to carry it up the gangplank of great Khedeshi war galleon while one of the grizzly, sallow-skinned Khedeshi screamed at them in his harsh tongue.
The buildings at first seemed strange, small daub-and-wattle buildings made from white mud and hide, next to expansive warehouses of stone and timber. Off in the distance, on the hills that rose from the Coast, a majestic white manse overlooked the city. Even from afar, it looked grand, a gleaming pearl rising above the everyday chaos of the trading hub. He pointed it out to Aeveran. “I think maybe we should start there.”
Aeveran nodded in agreement. The captain had been kind enough to leave them with three horses, already saddled and ready. They mounted and rode slowly through unfamiliar territory. The air smelled of the sea, bu also of the tang of spices and the faint odor of a nearby charnal house. Pollac held the reins in one hand, the other resting loosely on the hilt of his longsword. Alistair was attentive, trying to gain the feel of this new place, attune himself to its unfamiliar patterns.
The ride through the city was slow, and though three armed men in grey cloaks didn’t seem to draw notice from the crowds, Alistair still couldn’t shake the sensation that they were being watched. As they approached the manse on the hill, the surrounding area grew more affluent. Instead of mud and timber, there were stately homes built in white brick and ornately carved stone, all detailed with gold. Groups of men in loose white tunics marched past them bearing polearms, but did not give Alistair or his friends a second glance.
As they neared the base of the hill, Alistair found himself impressed by the wall that surrounded it, white marble raised twenty feet high and surrounding the entire circumference of the hill. A gate of black iron stood in stark contrast, barring the road and guarded by a dozen of the short Tyras’i soldiers. All wore the same white linen tunics, but with crimson sashes across their chests, and all but one were armed with poleaxes. One man, who may have stood chest-high against Alistair, wore a crimson cloak and a large, curved sword at his hip. This man, an officer most likely, stepped forward. When he spoke in the rolling Thraidthr tongue, it was thick and halting, as if his tongue had swollen. “What businesss do you have with the Prince of Kesa?”
Aeveran drew himself up in the saddle and looked down on the small, chicory-skinned man with all the nobility he could muster in the sweltering heat. “I have come to pay my respects to His Highness. You may tell him that Aeveran of Reath, Heir to the High Seat of the Thraidthr calls at his gate.”
Alistair watched as the soldiers muttered to themselves in the thick, guttural tongue of the Tyras’i. The officer considered the three of them for a moment before turning back to his men. After a short conversaton, two of the men turned and pushed the gate open. The officer returned his attention to the trio and spoke again in his halting accent. “Leave your horses and your weapons. I will take you to the Prince.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
POLLAC WANTED TO take hold of the small Tyras’i officer, lift him off the ground and shake him repeatedly, but Alistair slipped between them to intervene. He listened as the two men argued fluidly in the thick-tongued language of Tyras, watching as Alistair smoothly repressed a grimace of irritation. After what seemed to be a rather brief exchange, Alistair looked back at Pollac. “Our friend here insists that we leave our weapons with the horses. He claims that it is unlawful for outsiders to bring weapons before the Prince.”
Pollac offered a glance towards Aeveran, his fingers flexing around the hilt of the longsword hanging from his hip. “Alistair, explain to this…friend…that we accompany the Heir to the Thraid, whom we are sworn to defend. Explain to this man that it is mighty difficult to defend someone without a weapon. Explain that I will cut him down, should he try and take my blade.”
Alistair shrugged and resumed his debate with the soldier, who must’ve understood Pollac’s body language and now gripped his own sword tightly. After a conversation that involved a lot of wild gesturing and frantic pointing towards the two brothers, as well as a fair amount of yelling, Alistair sighed in relief. “Our friend tells me that if we try anything suspicious or untoward to His Majesty the Prince’s person, his men will gut us where we stand. He did agree to let us keep our weapons though.”
The Tyras’i officer scoweld and turned sharply towards the entrance to the manse, beckoning for them to follow. Aeveran just shook his head at his brother as he passed, and Alistair only sighed. Pollac cinched tight his swordbelt and followed, wary of treachery.
The brilliant sun beat down on Tyras, and Pollac, unused to the tropical climate, was beginning to regret the thick leather armor and wool cloak he wore. Of the three of them, only Alistair seemed unaffected by the sweltering heat. The air was so thick with humidity that Pollac figured he’d have an easier time drinking than breathing.
As they climbed the steep stairs that led to the main plaza, he found that he longed for the crisp autumn weather along the coasts of Reath. Still, a little suffering was necessary on a venture, and it was bound to be interesting soon enough. He studied the great marble pillars that supported the roof of the manor as they walked past them, marvelling at the beautiy of the architecture. They glowed a brilliant white in the midday sun, highlighting a significant level of detail that had gone into the patterns of gold on the pillars. Some represented animals, others men and women in varying states of relaxation and sexual arousal. Such things were kept in private amongst the Thraid, though Pollac knew of similar works of art in the homes of the more artistically minded Thraidir nobles.
They passed into a large atrium, a lush garden full of palm trees and exotic, brightly colored flowers. Small birds flew back and forth across the plaza like shining blue jewels, and in the trees monkeys nattered at each other, creating a commotion.
In the center of the room, carved from the same white marble as the rest of the manor, was an ornate fountain depicting two beautiful women bathing each other in a pond. The nudity and blatant sexuality intrigued Pollac, who had never encountered such a brazen and shameless culture. Lush violets grew from the fountain, contributing to the decadence of the sight. Next to the fountain, reclining in stark contrast to the erotic fountain, was an immense man who could only be the Merchant Prince of Kesa.
The Prince was massive, nearly forty stone if he weighed near a pound. His skin was dark as pitch and he wore only a loingloth of white linen to cover his nether regions. Surrounding him were a group of slaves involved in various tasks. Two teenaged boys, possibly of Rhedeshi descent, were fanning the Prince with large palm fronds, while two stunningly attractive Tyras’i women rubbed scented oils into the folds of his obese flesh. As they approached, the officer knelt next to him, whispering into the fat merchant’s ear and glowering at the Thraidir.
Pollac glanced towards his brother and friend, gauging their reactions. Aeveran looked sober and regal, a bearing Pollac had seen him wear often while chastising nobles involved in petty disputes. Alistair, however, must’ve drawn his hood up to obscure his face while they climbed up to the atrium, and was focusing intensely on something. The Merchant Prince sat upright with the aid of the two females, showing teeth as white as the marble at his unexpected guests. He looked directly at Aeveran, his voice deep and smoky as he addressed tem. His command of the Thraidir tongue was clear, with only the traces of an accent. “It has been a great long time since the Royals of Thraid dared grace us with their presence. Tell us then what brings you before the Great Merchant Prince of Kesa, so boldy armed with blades and mysteries.”
Aeveran sketched a polite bow, nudging his brother to do likewise. Alistair remained motionless, his arms crossed underneath the mottled grey cloak he wore. Pollac bowed, slightly lower than his brother, keeping his eyes trained on the fat Prince. Aeveran took a step forward, his voice gracious and steady. “We thank His Greatness for gifting us with his attentions on such short notice, and we assure Him that we have no wish to brook offense.”
Aeveran gestured at Pollac as he spoke. “This man is my own brother, a sworn sword of the Prestige, and oathbound to protect me. My other companion is a Magi of the Infinite Web, also oathbound to my safety, but we assure His Greatness that our intentions are peaceful. We seek only the wisdom of the Great Merchant Prince of Kesa.”
The Prince looked thoughtful, then turned to the officer and whispered something to hm that Pollac could neither hear nor likely understand. The officer scowled deeply, growling something harshly, and began to argue with the Prince. Faster than so large a man had a right to be, the Prince struck the officer across the face with a reed switch. The blow split the soldier’s cheek open, and the man bowed low before taking his leave of the atrium.
The Merchant Prince issued a command to the slaves, who then hurriedly moved to obey. He turned back to the Thraidir, a wide smile on his face. Pollac thought he looked a lot like the cat that ate the canary. “Well, Prince of Thraid, what wisdom is it that you seek, that you would travel so far from your own lands?”
The slaves returned quickly with a table and one chair, as well as platters of fruit and smoked fish, and pitchers filled with the sweet, chilled Tyras’i wine that was bountiful in the coastal regions. Aeveran sat down at the table after a nod from Alistair. Pollac felt a rumble in his gut, but knew that none of the plentiful spread was meant for him. He distracted himself by gazing around the atrium, his eyes eventually landing on the two female slaves. They appeared to be healthy and well fed, the sunlight glistening on supple, oiled flesh.
Aeveran began to explain to the Prince why they had journeyed so far. “Rumours of an ancient city lost deep in the jungles of your country piqued my curiosity, Your Greatness. A city known as Vhaarlo, once a seat of the Magi, and so I mean to lead an expedition.”
The Prince nodded, listening as Aeveran told their story with as little detail as possible. Alistair stood a few steps behind, hood still raised, exhuding an aura of calm. The Heir and the Prince conversed back and forth, and Pollac contented himself with watching the slaves tend to the gardens of the plaza. The females could have been twins, with the olive skin and black hair common amongst the folk of southern Tyras. Their silver eyes revealed a simple grace and deeply rooted acceptance of their fate. The two women were nude except for simple silver chains around their necks and hips, symbols of their place among the slaves of the Merchant’s household. Their curves were svelte, bodies well-muscled from hard labor, the fur that covered their sex dark, lush and untrimmed. As they moved around on their hands and knees, their full, heavy breasts swayed with the movement, and when they turned away, he caught a glimpse of their netherlips hidden between the cheeks of their buttocks. The lust rose unbidden as his loins stirred to arousal, forcing Pollac to stare at the fat merchant in order to distract himself.
Alistair gave Pollac a look of bemusement, then turned his attention back to Aeveran and the Prince, who seemed to be finishing their discussion. An elderly slave dressed in a white linen robe entered carrying quill, ink and parchement, and the Prince quickly wrote out something. The slave rolled the parchment and handed it over to Alistair, who only nodded to Aeveran and the Prince. The Prince reclined back on the divan, beckoning to the twins on the floor. “Your brother is admiring the girls, Your Highness. His taste is most exquisite. They are fine bedslaves, trained well and skilled with many ways of pleasure. I would gladly sell them to you, for only a thousand gold links.”
Pollac repressed a shudder of revulsion, refusing to think of the Prince being pleasured in any fashion, but mustered a gracious smile and bowed low. “His Greatness is more than generous, but I could not accept it. They would be better off remaing where they will be appreciated.”
The Prince only laughed, quickly returning his gaze to Alistair as he fingered the sex of one slave. “As you wish. You’ll find the inn we spoke of just outside the gate of my palace. Present the owner with my writ and you will be granted accomodaties fit for a Mercant Prince. I will spread the word that you seek a guide to take you into the jungles, and to seek you in the morning. Gods of Fortune and Prosperity watch over you.”
*~*
MORNING GREETED POLLAC with a dull ache in his head and a sour taste in his mouth. Sitting up with a groan, he realized that he wasn’t alone in the featherbed. Lying next to him was a petite Tyras’i woman, completely nude but for the thin cotton sheet that covered her legs. Her skin was the color of chocloate, with fiery red hair strewn across the pillow. He smiled as he dressed, admiring her pert breasts and dark, hard nipples, remembering that he had offered to teach her the finer points of swordplay.
Pollac found his way out to the veranda, the harsh, bright sunlight further aggravating the pain behind his eyes. Aeveran and Alistair were listening to a tall Rhedeshi man as he auditioned to guide them. Pollac snorted as he sat down, whispering to Alistair. “This one would have us believe he has mapped the entire Southron Continent and the Shadowed East as well.”
Alistair chuckled. “And so have the dozen that came before him.” He gestured to the line of men hungry for foreign gold and adventure that waited restlessly on the patio. “I doubt even one of them could guide his way to his mother’s loins with a map and compass.”
Pollac only laughed and broke his fast from the trays of bred, fruit and cheese. The morning turned to early evening and they had yet to find a guide. Only a few candidates remained, none of whom seemed promising.
He watched as Aeveran dismissed the last man, a burly warrior, his bare chest laced with scars. While Aeveran turned to consult with his friends, the man drew a large war axe, preparing to strike the Heir. Pollac was on his feeth with his sword drawn, just in time to block the attack, though barely. He countered with a feint at the large man’s eyes, causing his foe to raise the axe enough to expose his chest. Pollac plunged the longsword through his opponent’s heart and out the other side with one clean thrust. As he withdrew the sword, the man slumped dead to the ground. “I guess that one didn’t like being rejected.”
The sound of clapping turned the heads of all three men to the back corner of the veranda. A thin, weathered Thraidir man sat smiling peaceably at them. “That is one of the Merchant Prince’s soldiers, and I’d wager that more are on their way. Best you come with me, Your Highness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*