INTRIGUE IN AVIENE

INTRIGUE IN AVIENE, by Steve Dilks

 

1

“You have a keen eye for swords, soldier,” said the blacksmith, setting down his hammer and moving to the front of his stall.

Squinting out into the midday sun, he saw an imposing figure stood there, an ebon giant dressed in mail shirt and high strapped sandals. He gave pause, for he saw that his visitor was a savage looking specimen carved seemingly from obsidian. Imposingly, he towered over him a full head in height. At his side was a short legionnaire’s sword in a metal worked scabbard. The impressive breadth of shoulders and heavily muscled arms were designed for the casting of javelins and the swinging of steel. Not for him were the slinging of nets like the olive skinned fishermen that dwelt along the coast of Valentia. Here was a man who well knew the worth of a deadly sharpened blade in combat. He was busy testing the edge of a long-sword now, turning it this way and that to best appraise its craftsmanship.

The stranger looked up at the greeting and gave a strong toothed smile before setting the blade carefully back down on the counter again. Folding his great arms over his chest, he regarded the smith through dark smoldering eyes. “You make fine steel. Alas, I am not in the market for weapons today. Know you where I can find a tavern called the Eagle and the Cross?”

Frowning, the blacksmith wiped his hands on a rag. “Aye,” he said, indicating with his head. “It can be found in the plaza of Dolphins over in the upper city.”

With a nod, the soldier turned from the stall and made his way out into the crowded market square. Mumbling about the ingratitude of foreigners, the smith turned back to his anvil and the spear head he had been fashioning with his hammer.

The sun blazed down from a clear vaulted sky as Bohun of Damzullah shouldered his way through the noisy throngs. A mercenary in the ongoing wars against Dionyssa, his thoughts now were only of the hunger gnawing at his belly. He had returned to Aviene some months ago and his coin was near depleted. Many months he had spent fighting on the decks of galleys in storm wracked seas, those decks awash with blood as they engaged the war ships of Dionyssa. He had glutted himself in the slaughter on the battlefields of Cresos, where chariots crashed and men died as blades flamed under the hot sun. Even now, above the hubbub of the market place, he fancied he could hear shields clashing like thunder above the screams of dying men. He had lost himself in the slaughter there, sated his blood lust until he had become little more than a beast. Now, for the first time in months, he found himself back in civilization. Yet there was no peace for him here. No wife to welcome him with loving arms as greeted so many of his other companions. Nor were his nights filled with song and wine as it was for the younger soldiers. His nights were filled only with dreams of death and blood. He knew nothing now but the madness of battle. The life he once knew, the dreams he once had, were but ashes in his memory.

Leaving the market square behind, he turned onto a marbled avenue that led toward the upper city. Noblemen stared as he passed, muttering to one another. Bohun ignored them, gazing instead at the statues and frescoed bathhouses. For in Aviene every effort had been made to create the perfect society, one great enough to outdo Tharnya in upstart Dionyssa. But he knew that such privileges came at a price. In the lower city there were rumblings among the poor, already groaning under the weight of exorbitant taxes.

Reaching the fountain of Dolphins, the giant Damzullahan took the left hand street. True to the blacksmith’s word, he saw the painted sign of the Eagle and the Cross and, ducking in, came down a wide set of steps. He found a table and, sitting down, scanned the room through a thickening haze of smoke. A haunch of meat turned invitingly on the spit and he ordered a cut from a passing serving girl. After he had washed it down with a swig of ale, he looked up to see a man hovering at his table’s edge. The fellow was slim and foppish, dressed in expensive garments. He glanced around uneasily before making a complicated gesture with his left hand.

Bohun repeated the gesture with his own left hand and the man sat down, reaching for the ale pitcher. He took a long swallow and sighed, wiping a drape sleeved arm over his lips.  He was young, round-faced with blue eyes and short golden-curled hair. He fidgeted nervously with a heavy silver chain about his neck.

“His name is Acilius, a magistrate high up in public office, a part time scribe for the senate.” He leaned forward furtively and whispered; “In the name of the people and in the cause of revolution—he must die!”

“How much?” Bohun asked, nonchalantly pouring himself another cup and ignoring the boy’s air of melodrama.

“Two thousand gold dishnas. Half to be delivered tonight at a place of your choosing. The rest when the deed is done. Agreed?”

Bohun nodded. A rich nobleman’s son fired by the cause of injustice to the poor and part of a plotting anarchy movement—it was all madness to Bohun, but his purse was empty and he needed coin. The war was at an impasse. No victor had emerged from the mania for conquest and so both Valentia and Dionyssa had slunk back to their homes to plot more deviltry. He found himself seeking whatever work he could find in a land that looked disfavourably on foreigners, particularly those from less ‘cultured’ backgrounds.

The young revolutionist slid a sheaf of papyrus across the table.

“The address where, at night in the academy, Acilius delves into his scrolls for the senate. He has his own quarters. Subsided by the tax payer no less! It is not heavily guarded and he has but one servant. Memorize it.”

Bohun looked. The boy rose and, going swiftly to the fire, crumpled the parchment and tossed it in. He came back and, righting his stool, began; “Now, where should we deliver the first payment—”

The rest of the sentence was never uttered. A big shadow fell over them and a huge hand descended on the youth’s shoulder.

“Well, lad, surely you can find better company than talking to this heathen cur.”

Bohun looked to see three big, burly veterans standing over them. The ragged state of their tunics and the grime on their mail showed that they were down on their luck. They had just entered and not yet made it to the bar.

The young revolutionist wilted, looking pale and weak under the weight of that big, scarred hand. He began to stammer something in reply.

“Move on, soldier, we have no trouble for you,” Bohun said, spacing his words evenly. The big soldier lifted his lip in a sneer before turning to his companions.

“How times have changed. Now they let any bare-arsed savage in the army. Why don’t you just run along back to your mud hut in the jungle and leave the organized discipline of fighting to the real men, eh?”

Bohun set his cup down slowly. “Times have indeed changed. Since when did the men of Oguria, Callaceia and Eber, as I take all you fine men to be, know anything other than sodomizing their children and raping the livestock?”

There was a moment’s stunned silence in which the revolutionist, still in the grip of the big Ogurian, looked incredulously at Bohun, as if he had just signed their death warrants.

There was an explosive roar as the Ogurian reached for his hilt—but the Damzullahan was faster. He snatched up the ale pitcher from the table and, swinging it hard, shattered the soldier’s teeth. As he fell back, his two friends leaped aside in slack-jawed amazement, fumbling uncertainly for their swords.

Bohun was up, his own blade, a short legionnaire’s spatha with an eagle head pommel, already in his hand. One foot lashed out, sending the table skidding across the floor. He held up his left hand in warning. “Last chance. Walk away.”

The two veterans hesitated, hands hovering over their hilts.

All was silent now as every pair of eyes in the room stared at the scene transfixed. The young revolutionary, ducking out of the way, made silently for the door. Bohun’s blade gleamed blue in the firelight. Then the Ogurian reeled up between his fellows. One hand to his mouth, spitting blood and broken teeth, he screamed; “Die, dog!” and dragged out his short-sword.

Foam flying from his lips, he came on like a charging bull. Bohun flicked the now vacant stool into his knees and rapped him hard on the back of the head with his hilt as he stumbled forward off balance.

Then bedlam reigned. Women screamed as people began piling out the door and bellowing for the watch.

Leaping back to avoid the Callaceian’s thirsty sword that caught in his mail, Bohun elbowed a merchant in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor and crying; “Murder!”

With a wild sweep of his blade, the Damzullahan cleared a space for himself as he drove the two red-faced, panting soldiers back toward the door. Sparks flew as steel clashed in the gloom. Hordes of milling patrons, desperately trying to avoid them, fell over one another as they clawed frantically for the exit. Bohun smiled, eyeing the two veterans through flint black eyes; “Should have left while you had the chance,” he said lowly.

“Hold there! Put down those swords!” a voice shouted from the entrance. Bodies parted and in came the watch in their crested helmets, hefting their crossbows.

The two soldiers, looking to one another, dropped their blades and raised their hands.

Holding his bloodied mouth, the Ogurian got to his knees; “Areth him offither! He’th a madman!” he spat through broken teeth.

A cornered lion, Bohun scowled at the room before lowering his own sword. He knew how bad this looked. After all, a dozen witnesses could attest it was he who had landed the first blow and drawn first steel. A stocky Valentian in breastplate and mail came pushing up through the throng.

“All right, soldier, put down that sword.”

Bohun sighed and, tossing the heavy blade to the floor, spread his hands.

 

2.

 

Not for the first time, Bohun found himself incarcerated. Nor for the first time did he find the experience tedious. He sat chained in a hot cell alongside a score of other miserable wretches whose only thought was how to outwit their fellow prisoners when it came to getting the bigger share of gruel at meal times. He took no part in their trivial squabbles. He endured the situation silently, resting back on his heels, eyes smoldering in the gloom like those of a great cat. In him was instilled the instincts of the wild and, with it, the patience of the hunter. Wisely, the other prisoners left him alone.

At length the guards came in, kicking the unwashed aside and jabbing with their pikes. “You!” A centurion growled while a dozen lance points lowered at Bohun. Stretching like a great hunting lion, the Damzullahan rose slowly to his feet until he towered over them. They noted the glower in his eyes, the great thews glistening like black iron in the torch light, and were mindful not to let their spears waver. He was marched out of the cell and, still manacled, led to a sparse room. An old man in a loose white robe waved the soldiers outside the door before motioning for the Damzullahan to sit on a long bench within.

“My son,” he said, leaning on a richly carved staff, “things do not bode well for you. Since you are a foreigner, and a heathen at that, the court has refused you right of representation. That you assaulted another soldier could be overlooked as high spirits. But you also assaulted a merchant and that, I’m afraid is punishable by hard labour or death.”

Bohun said nothing, his face an impassive ebon mask.

“But,” the old man lifted a gnarled finger and raised beetling brows; “there is one hope.”

“And that is?”

“I am no lawyer, son, but a priest of the One True Divine. I have taken pity on your case. True, from a legal perspective I have no power inside the courts but they will at least recognize a plea for penance, if that plea is of a religious nature. We are a new religion but already we have a disciple whose father ranks high up in the senate. The court will lend us ear. My proposal is that we make a plea that you have forsaken your heathen ways and have turned to the greater glory of the One True Nameless God for salvation. If successful, a public flogging and groveling for mercy at the feet of your victim will be your punishment. There is even a good chance you will come out of this ordeal an enlightened man.”

Bohun’s eyes flickered with puzzlement. “And this is a good thing?”

“Why, certainly!” exclaimed the priest, straightening.

“I should receive a beating, lie, then beg forgiveness?”

“Not lie, my son, but become a convert to the One True Exalted God. In the all-encompassing light of your salvation you will be begging to be beaten for your heathen sins!” A look of fanatical pride creased his face.

Throwing back his head, Bohun laughed. It was not a joyful laugh but rather the rumble of a rousing lion. “Priest, mine are the ways of the trees and plains. From birth I have been taught to read the signs of river and stone, the bend of every grass blade that sweeps the savannah. I have learned to walk the trails of the lion. I am from Damzullah!” He thumped the bands of his mighty chest with a hammered fist. “Our ways are older than the world. I cannot accept your god anymore than I could rip my own heart from my breast.”

The priest shook his greying head; “Then you will be sold to the salt mines, my boy.”

“For how long?”

“You don’t understand,” he said wearily. “No one ever leaves the salt mines.”

 

3.

 

The torches mounted along the walls of the market square made sweating effigies of the men and women crowded onto the slave platform. Here were criminals of every profession; thieves and murderers, pirates and bandits. To the other side were the women, some scantily clad, others, not at all. There were dusky, full-hipped women of Aethiopia with sleek ebon skins and shaven heads, mixed with olive-skinned, dark-eyed temptresses from the east. All had one thing in common; the iron manacles that bound them.

Stripped to a loin-cloth, Bohun was goaded onto the platform by the auctioneer’s assistant, a short, heavy man with a tattooed chest. The big Damzullahan moved forward, his eyes sweeping the throng that looked at him from below. Some jeered whilst others laughed. He stood with feet widely spaced and head raised, the heavy chain from his manacles dangling before him.

“Lot 73!” cried the auctioneer, “A rare prize this one! A barbarian from the savannahs beyond the desert of the Gharabu. How much am I bid for this savage? Look at those swelling muscles, that hard frame. A good hard labourer who could endure much. Come, shall we say five silver pieces for starters?”

There were mumblings from the crowd before a voice rose from the back of the square. “Fifteen silver pieces, Thammuz, and be damned to you!”

There were raucous laughter and rude cat calls from the crowd. Unfazed, the auctioneer looked up and around. “Any advance on fifteen? No? Then sold to Durkundi of the salt mines for fifteen silver pieces!”

There was motion in the throng and bodies parted as Durkundi’s bodyguard came up to the block. A huge, hulking black from Kema, he wore a leather waist coat that was open to the waist. Tied beneath a bulging belly was a yellow sash that upheld a pair of silk pantaloons. In one hand he held a scimitar. He mounted the platform and, as he did, the squat assistant came forward bearing a set of keys. The bodyguard watched silently, legs braced as he leaned on the pommel of his great sword.

Head lowered, the Damzulluhan waited as if resigned to his fate. The assistant reached for his wrists and, as he did, Bohun exploded into life.

Not one person there saw the blow, but all heard the sickening crunch as the looped chain swung up and caved in the assistant’s skull in a vicious sweeping arc. Before the body collapsed to the floor, Bohun had snatched up the fallen keys. The Keman bodyguard swept up his scimitar with a snarl and came charging across the platform. He stopped short, the curved sword quivering in his fist. He knew what his fate would be if he harmed the flesh of a paid for slave. That moment’s hesitation proved his undoing. Bohun flung the manacles into his face and came up from the floor, fist swinging like a hammer to land squarely in his midriff. The breath whooshed from the Keman’s lungs and his legs buckled. Grasping hold of an arm and thigh, Bohun heaved him up high over his head. At this display of strength, there were gasps and shouts from the crowd. Then, with a contraction of straining muscles, the Damzullahan hurled him from the platform. The bodyguard crashed headlong into a long line of shackled slaves waiting below. Howls and curses filled the air.

Bohun heard shouts, saw the gleam of breastplates as soldiers came pushing up through the crowd.

“Guards! The savage is bankrupting me!” screamed the auctioneer.

Ripping out an oath, Bohun wheeled to the front of the platform, hands spread wide as his eyes swept the throngs below.

“Well done, brother!” a voice screamed from the front of the crowd. “Let us all cast off our shackles as this man has done! Now is the time to rise up. Let us all be free in the name of the One True Divine! Let us-—”

Bohun leaped, crushing the small foppish fanatic into the ground. Men cursed and noble women fell back screaming from the ebon giant suddenly in their midst.

“Out of my way!” he snarled. Springing through the crowd, he raced on through the square, sending cheap wares flying as he went. Despite the shouts of the guards, no hand sought to stop him and he made down a crumbled side street where maimed beggars crouched in the dust. They held upturned palms to him as he passed them, his teeth bared in defiance

 

4.

 

A few ominous clouds scudded across the evening sky, bringing fresh hints of rain to the marble frescoes of the upper city. Here, all was quiet as the first stars began blinking out overhead. A vagrant breeze stirred the potted palms in the villa gardens.

Turning from his window on the second floor of the historical academy, Acilius mumbled in his long white beard and went back to re-reading the parchment scroll he had just written. The vellum was stretched out before him on a cluttered table and, hunched over the document, head in hands, he mouthed the words aloud as if testing the weight of every syllable. Tall tapers lighted the room, revealing row upon row of shelves full of dusty scrolls. Tutting, he picked up a heron feather quill and, dipping it in a well of ink, began scratching. So engrossed in his work was he that he failed to notice when his servant and bodyguard entered the room. It was only the tell-tale sound of a footfall that made Acilius aware of his visitor’s presence.

“Ah, Kulthio,” he said not looking up from the parchment as the quill continued to scratch furiously, “has it started to rain again? Be a good fellow and go make up some of that hot spicy wine from Callaceia. These old bones are starting to ache from the chill, I—”

He turned, seeing a shadow at his elbow, and stopped short. The quill froze in his hand. He saw a gigantic, dark figure standing over him, naked but for a silk breech clout, a short-sword gleaming in his fist. The window behind them creaked in the wind, ruffling the hangings. That this man had climbed two storeys unobserved and entered so noiselessly was testament to a sinister skill that could mean only one thing.

Acilius sighed. “I’m not so fond of life as I once was, friend. So don’t expect that I will beg to keep it.” He looked at the sword. “That’s Kulthio’s blade. What have you done with him?”

“He’s alive. He’ll have a headache come tomorrow but he’ll not trouble us tonight.”

Acilius nodded, relieved. “Who was it sent you? Nay, tell me not. It matters little. I have made many enemies in the course of my career, both in the courts of justice and in the halls of the senate. I would not care to give them the satisfaction of my knowing who ordered the deed.”

Bohun stood like a statue, half hidden in the shadows.

“Well, come on boy, let’s get this over with. The gods await me.”

Bohun lowered the blade. “I have not come here to kill you,” he said, “but to give you warning and ask favour.”

“I don’t understand.”

Acilius sat silently as Bohun, in a few brief sentences, related everything that had happened.

The old man set down his quill and pondered; “Hmm. So! You were sent to kill me by some new upstart anarchist movement who have no connection to me at all! Do they not know that killing me strengthens those far deadlier to their cause than I ever could be? Ah, the follies of youth!” He shook his head sadly.

“They blame you for allowing the money lenders too much interference in affairs of state. They give to foreign interests and squander the profits while the lower city starves.”

“Ever the money lenders! History is littered with their evils!” He threw up his arms, indicating the scrolls lining the walls. “Ten thousand years from now, governments will still be suffering at their mercy. It’s what makes us civilized, apparently.”

Bohun looked around at the shelves, the sword hanging forgotten in his hand. He shook his head and grunted; “Such a thing would never happen in my homeland. Were the king giving to outside tribes while my people starved he would be dragged out into the main square, staked to the ground and trampled by wild bulls.”

“How are you called, soldier?”

“Bohun.”

Acilius gave a weary smile. “You come from a fierce people, Bohun. You still know pride. This empire casts an ugly shadow. Its sole purpose is to suck men dry. And Aviene is its heart. It is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of deceit.”

He looked at the papyrus stretched before him on the table and sighed. “But this does not explain how I can be of help to you.”

Bohun lifted his head. “When I first came to Aviene I saw the crosses bearing traitors and criminals that line the road to her gates. A touch of gold and you can have these charges against me wavered. I would not have a bounty on my head.”

Acilius tapped a finger against his bottom lip. “Well, there are those in the council that still owe me favour… ” Then, as if making his mind up about something, he straightened and, rearranging his toga, said; “You have the look of an honest man, Bohun. I believe your tale. It is too underhanded and deceitful not to be true. It seems that Aviene is safe for neither of us. Tell me, my friend, have you ever driven a chariot before? What say we get you out of the city, hmm?”

 

5.

 

The hour was late. Only a few stars were visible as ragged clouds swept the heavens, obscuring them from view.

Toward the western gate a lone chariot made its way, advancing along the avenue of regents, pulled by two spirited stallions. The driver wore brass breastplate and leather kilted skirt, his features obscured by a mane-crested helmet. A scarlet cloak hung from the bronze greave on his shoulders. Behind him stood a stately old man, long white beard and toga streaming in the wind, one hand resting lightly on the rail as the other clutched a scroll tightly to his chest. Hooves rang as the chariot rumbled to a halt before twin gates inside a marbled courtyard.

Torches flared and wavered along the walls of a nearby guardhouse.

Beneath his helmet, Bohun surveyed the enclosure through dark eyes, one hand gripping the reins as the horses snorted impatiently. Two soldiers stood to attention at the gate as, from the guardhouse, another tramped toward them. He held up a fist in greeting as he approached.

“Ho, there, upperclath man!” he said with a prominent lisp.

Acilius straightened; “Is there a problem captain? Where are the regular guards this evening?”

“On leave. A formality, good thir, I wish only to view your paperth.”  He came up and stood below the magistrate.

“My papers? Oh, I see. Well, I hope I will not be detained long. You see, I have some guests awaiting me at my villa,” he said, absently fumbling in the folds of his toga.

From the corner of his eye, Bohun saw the two guards leave their posts and start toward them. Swiveling his head, he looked back to the captain, striving to see the features beneath the shadows of his crested helm. Then, with a wordless snarl, he thrust the magistrate aside with his left elbow and drew his sword. The blade hummed as he yelled; “It’s a trap!” and leaning across, slashed down with all his might. The captain barely leaped back in time as the blade came down, ringing a hollow note on the edge of his helmet. He cursed and, as his own blade left its sheath, he lunged forward with the point. The two guards from the gate came in at a run now, leveling their pikes. Even as the captain over reached his thrust, Bohun recognized him as the big Ogurian he had brawled with only two days before. He barked a short humourless laugh. Pushing Acilius back, he parried the clumsy thrust. Reaching out, he grabbed the Oguriaian’s shoulder plate and pulled him close. Their blades locked.

“Should have stayed at home with the livestock, Ogurian,” he snarled and, letting him go, snatched for the hilt of his long knife. The blade whipped upward under his chin and sank to the hilt, point rattling on the inside of his helmet as it exited through the top of his head. There was an instant’s surprised recognition before the blood began spraying freely over Bohun’s hand. Then life fled from dulled and vacant eyes. He fell back in a crashing heap to the floor, heels drumming the marble.

With a bound, Bohun was up and out of the chariot, landing in a crouch. The guards slowed but did not halt their advance. The Callaceian came on at a dogged run, his pike leveled, and Bohun, moving forward, feinted to his left. At the last moment he stepped in, ramming his sword into the soldier’s ribs between the greaves of the breast and back plate. There was a sickening wet crunch and the Callaceian arched upward, screaming in agony. The Damzullahan wrenched the blade back as blood sprayed the flags and the soldier fell, dead before he hit the ground.

“Whatever that nobleman’s son is paying you, man of Eber, it is not enough. Leave now while my humour is still good,” Bohun said, shaking scarlet drops from his sword and walking casually toward the remaining soldier who was busy trying to outflank him. He eyed the giant black warrior warily for a moment before dropping his spear and heading off toward the upper city at a run.

Heaving a sigh, Bohun wrenched off his helmet and turned to face a stunned Acilius standing open mouthed in his chariot.

“Those men were sent by the boy who originally hired me to kill you.” He shrugged, “Where the real guards are, Chaka only knows.”

“Either drugged or bribed. If I know Valentia, the latter is the more likely. Come, we waste time! Open the gates and let us be away. I’ll send a servant from my villa to alert the court! There’ll be a warrant out for the arrest of those involved by morning. Gods of Appelia! Never have I witnessed such skill with a sword outside the arena. Once your name is cleared I will hire you as my bodyguard. Kulthio won’t like it of course…”

Bohun, wiping his blade on a rag and slamming it into his scabbard, grinned; “Just keep to the deal as we arranged. I’ve had a belly full of Aviene and Valentia. Besides, I owe Kulthio for busting his head. I wouldn’t feel right taking his position. Nay, it’s the open road for me, Acilius.”

With that, Bohun pushed open the gates and leaped back into the chariot. Lashing the horses, he drove them thundering down the dusty trail.

As they passed along lines of birch trees, Acilius raised his head and gave silent thanks to the distant gods of Appelia as the moon showed her face among tatters of streaming clouds.

 

________________________________________

Steve Dilks lives in Hertfordshire, England. “Intrigue in Aviene” is the third story to feature his character, Bohun of Damzullah, whose previous adventures can be found in Savage Realms Monthly and the anthology, Swords & Sorceries- Tales of Heroic Fantasy. You can visit the author’s amazon page here.