DISCORDANT FACTIONS

DISCORDANT FACTIONS, by Howard Andrew Jones

(Excerpted from Book 3 of The Chronicles of Hanuvar, Shadow of the Smoking Mountain, coming from Baen October 2024)

When their walls were breached at last, the people of Volanus fought block by block, house by house, until most fell with sword in hand. Only a thousand or so survived to be led away in chains.

The city’s treasuries were looted, its temples defiled, and then, to sate their emperor’s thirst for vengeance, the mages of the Dervan Empire cursed Volanus and sowed its fields with salt. Their destruction was complete apart from one detail: the greatest Volani general had escaped alive.

Against the might of a vast empire, Hanuvar has only an aging sword arm, a lifetime of wisdom, and the greatest military mind in the world, bent upon a single goal. No matter where his people have been taken, from the furthest outpost of the empire to its rotten heart, he will find them. Every last one of them. And he will set them free.

— The Chronicles of Hanuvar

 

 

The dark curling locks of the middle singer hid most of the red scar along the right side of her face as well as her missing ear, though a diminishing line of pink-tinged pale skin shone along the sun-bronzed cheek. Probably she remained in pain and would be, for the rest of her life, but this night she beamed, like the two singers beside her, as if delighted by their circumstance. All three wore traditional Herrenic dresses with tight waists, pleated skirts, and low collars. No matter their costume, all three were Volani, and raised their voices skillfully.

The dinner guests were too busy circulating under the garden’s festive paper lanterns to pay the women any direct notice. For them, the masterful performance was no more than pleasant background noise, and likely few in attendance understood the Volani words about a boy’s delight at the first spring flowers high upon the slope of frost-crowned Mount Keenai, towering still near lost Volanus.

Hanuvar had deliberately kept well back from the vocalists, concerned he might be recognized despite his disguise as a Dervan man of means, complete with citizen’s ring and the lightweight toga praetexta draped over a yellow tunic. But he couldn’t resist peering at them through a screen of foliage.

This villa was not far from the coast, and over the chatter of guests and the bustle of servants and the music itself he heard waves crashing against the shore, an omnipresent sound through much of the Volanus he had known. Almost, he could imagine himself at a party in his homeland. The lighting intensified the impression as a full moon peered out through the clouds. It was always easier to imagine the irrecoverable city by night, when dreams seeped halfway toward the waking world.

There were other entertainments underway as well, including a juggler who worked too hard to curry favor for his talents with handsome young men. He slunk away to try an equite guest after being spurned by one of the haughty, smooth-skinned Ilodoneans.

A handful of those distinctly foreign men wandered armed along the periphery, frowning and superior. Most were garbed in a uniform with blue capes and conical helms and oddly segmented dark red chest armor reminiscent of lobster carapaces. It was unusual to show weapons at a gathering of this sort so Hanuvar had readily elicited gossip that the four were bodyguards for a prince, although they were seldom near him.

Their apparent charge strode solemnly past Hanuvar to occupy an empty space directly before the Volani women. Unlike his guards he wore a strange mixture of styles, including an archaic bronze helm that afforded wide scope for his haughty black eyes but obscured the sides of his face down to his heavy chin. He surveyed the singers with a proprietary look before walking stiffly on, and their expressions briefly clouded.

After the prince passed, a Dervan man drew up on Hanuvar’s left, working to use Hanuvar’s body to block the Ilodonean’s line of sight to him. Seeing that Hanuvar noticed what he did, the newcomer chuckled quietly, watched the prince depart, then shifted the white snack platter he held to his off hand while raising the other in greeting.

“Lartius Veritas,” he said. “Some guests are just tiresome, even if you’ve invited them yourself.”

“Julius Neponus,” Hanuvar returned. “Very nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for having me.”

Lartius waved off the privilege of the laboriously acquired invitation with a be-ringed hand, as though it were no great matter, his eyes still upon the hedge through which the Ilodonean prince had exited. Lartius was reedy and self-satisfied, with hair so precisely trimmed and arranged he looked to be wearing a fur helmet.

“Are the Ilodoneans a problem?” Hanuvar asked.

“Not so much a problem as a… point of contention. That was their prince, Xenxes.”

“Why is his equipment such a jumble?”

Lartius eyed him in curiosity. “You really haven’t heard of him? I’ve mentioned him in a number of my writings[1]. The Terror of the West?”

“I’m afraid I’m only newly come to your writings, sir. It was my esteemed uncle who was one of your devotees, and I’m afraid he’s passed on. But he spoke so admiringly of your work, and the Zenith, that I had to beg an introduction when I was passing through the area.”

“My condolences for your loss, then, and my welcome to you. Prince Xenxes is privy to a number of deeply consequential information streams from Ilodonea. But he simply cannot pull the data together properly, and his, shall we say, dogmatic conversational style was not apparent from the letters we have been exchanging.”

“And his equipment?” Hanuvar persisted.

“Well, he’s got the spear of Ikthos and the shield of Hundara and the helm of Iskandros himself. And that sword? That’s the sword of Yriak the Great. The Cerdian conqueror.” Though apparently annoyed by Xenxes, the patrician boasted about the prince’s acquisitions, as though his own esteem were greater for having such a man as his guest.

Carrying the belongings of famous dead conquerors suggested Xenxes valued notoriety over expertise, but Hanuvar did not share that opinion with this audience, and instead managed to sound impressed. “He must be quite formidable.”

“They say he’s killed fifty men.”

Hanuvar had never liked to enumerate, let alone advertise, the less savory aspects of his career, so this information further suggested Xenxes sought renown, for the prince was likely involved in spreading this figure. “He certainly looks dreadful.”

Popping a honeyed walnut into his maw from the snack plate, Lartius expounded upon the Terror of the West. “He tracked down a lot of those treasures himself over thousands of miles and all kinds of obstacles. He’s something of a kindred spirit, although I’m far more interested in religious artifacts. Have you seen my collection?”

“I plan to,” Hanuvar said. “I’ve heard it’s impressive.”

“The hardest piece to get was that Volani one, not because it’s especially pretty, but because the bidding on it was so high. There won’t ever be another one!” Lartius laughed shortly. “Do you know it stood in the temple of Varus for generations? That’s Hanuvar’s god,” he added.

“Oh,” said Hanuvar. “I didn’t realize the man had one.”

The singers had begun a song of the sea. The scarred young woman and the companion on her left had fallen silent apart from joining in the refrain, enabling the third to take the lead in a lilting alto. All swayed in time to the music, the pleats of their dresses shifting in perfect synchronization. He wasn’t sure which of the names he’d memorized applied to which individual. “Are these young women Volani too?”

“Yes. They used to be temple singers.”

Hanuvar knew that, but effected a polite interest, and Lartius continued. “Their coastal islands had women sing like this whenever the moon was full, and you could hear it all over the harbor of Volanus.”

In point of fact, the choirs raised their voices at sunrise and sunset, although there were occasional night time festivals, but Hanuvar did not correct him.

“They’re fetching, aren’t they? The best one has been terribly marred, unfortunately. That’s why we keep her hair swept forward. But not many of these singers survived, so we couldn’t be too choosy. Caiax stormed the islands and stupidly crucified most of the occupants, trying to scare the Volani on the mainland, across the channel. Quite a waste of good performers, if you ask me. The man had no head for business.”

Hanuvar raised his wine goblet to his lips, the better to mask the heat flushing his cheeks.

One of Lartius’ followers spotted him and walked up to join them. Like the rest of the party guests, he was middle-aged and well-to-do. He inserted himself into the conversation without an introduction. “I wonder what they’re singing about,” he said. “I can’t understand a word of that gibberish.”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Lartius said dismissively.

“They look so happy,” the newcomer continued. “You suppose they’re actually singing to us about their treacherous city, or that monster that led them to ruin?”

The word Volanus or his own name would be obvious but Hanuvar didn’t bother pointing that out.

“Hanuvar’s infiltrated the praetorians, you know,” Lartius said to Hanuvar. The other man nodded and both watched him for reaction. This was the last thing Hanuvar expected to hear, and he couldn’t resist questioning the bizarre assertion. “He has?

“Your uncle may have known, depending upon how deep into my writings he was.”

“He didn’t mention that. I’m sure I’d have remembered.”

“The last emperor knew how dangerous Hanuvar was,” the other man said. “Why do you think he destroyed Volanus?”

“I assumed it was because the emperor hated Volani opposition and wanted the city’s riches.” Hanuvar had some experience with the matter but his two companions smiled smugly at his apparent naivete.

Lartius shook his perfect coif of hair and spoke with profound gravity, as if to convey a vital secret. “He knew Hanuvar was in league with The Vanished Ones to power their immortality magic, turning them to Dervan skins for his own purposes. Gaius was readying a counterstrike that would have eliminated the fiends, but Hanuvar had him killed, and is now shaping policy disguised as one of the emperor’s top advisors.”

“He’s even more clever than I thought,” said Hanuvar. He’d known this group of Dervans that named themselves “Zenith” held to peculiar beliefs, but hadn’t guessed their doctrines were this strange.

Someone was advancing through the lawn to his right, and she spoke as she drew closer. “The Vanished Ones have a secret room under the senate, of course,” she said, utterly serious. She slid a hand through the crook of Hanuvar’s arm as he suppressed his surprise at finding her here.

He recognized Aleria[2]’s voice, even though she adopted a sophisticated drawl, as of someone from Turian lineage, and she wore a stola of expensive sheer fabric with bared arms and silver accents. Her hair was elaborately styled and silver bracelets dangled on her wrists. She had always been attractive but the overall affect this evening was especially striking, and she carried herself with the confidence of a woman who knew it.

Lartius smiled. “Ah, the lovely Lucinda. She’s well read on my work in this area,” he said to Hanuvar. “Almost ready for the full initiation,” he added.

“I hope to qualify next month.” She patted Hanuvar’s arm. “Have you seen Lartius’ most recent update? I had no idea the Vanished Ones engineered the entire war with the Cerdians.”

Hanuvar had no trouble managing to sound surprised. “Did they?”

“I’ll tell you all about it.” Aleria squeezed Hanuvar’s arm, nodded her head toward Lartius, and led Hanuvar away toward the villa. Behind them, the singers were being moved off by a well-dressed house slave so that a trio of flautists could take their place.

Hanuvar spoke quietly to Aleria: “The Vanished Ones?” Earlier in the week he himself had spent time in some of their ruins and he had a passing familiarity with the folklore about them, but he’d never heard anyone claim the Vanished Ones were still in existence, much less involved in Dervan politics, or leaguing with Hanuvar.

She leaned toward him to answer, her voice low. “These people just lap this nonsense up.  The crazier, the better.” They stepped around a small knot of men and women discussing the impact of moon phases upon personalities, and made for a side entrance to the sprawling villa. “So what are you doing this time?” Aleria asked. “I didn’t think you’d need another score this year. I’m starting to think you like to do this sort of thing for fun.”

“What about you? Our last venture should have set you up for a long while. Yet here you are. And it seems like you’re well known to their group.”

“I’ve found I have expensive tastes. And it’s not hard for a pretty widow to get involved here. All that’s needed is some reading time and a touch of sophistication. ”

“A widow,” Hanuvar said. “How sad. Should I express my condolences?”

She pressed her free hand to her chest and spoke with mock sorrow. “My husband died at sea on the way to Hadira. I’ve been in mourning for the last year and was so shattered by his loss I have only now begun to circulate. This is my first time along the Oscani coast, and I am ever so eager for introductions.” She fluttered her eyelids dramatically.

“I’m sure. I probably shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help wondering about Hanuvar’s connections with the praetorians and the Vanished Ones.”

She stopped just shy of the villa at the edge of the party, where a pair of women laughed loudly near the open door to the walled gardens attached to the residence. She guided him to a low stand of pines nearby and faced him. “Well, Hanuvar is disguised as Metellus, the new legate of the praetorian guard. He disfigured himself so no one would recognize him.”

“I’ve seen Metellus. That’s some commitment to a role[3]. Dare I ask what his plan is?”

Aleria adopted a limpid eyed expression of astonishing sincerity. “He’s scheming to take the women of Derva to a hidden sect of Hadiran mystics in exchange for the secrets of the ancients.”

“You’re making this up as you go,” Hanuvar suggested.

“I’m really not. How is it that you don’t know all this? You’re usually thoroughly invested in a part.”

“I’m disguised as someone curious about Zenith but uninitiated. I’m scouting tonight.”

“And what are you really after?”

“Several things.”

She eyed him speculatively, then glanced over at the two women, still chatting animatedly before the garden’s entrance. “I’m not opposed to us throwing in together, but I can’t have you jeopardizing what I’ve worked for.”

“That’s understandable.”

He saw her shoulders relax minutely. “How could I forget how reasonable you are?

But I need to know what you’re here for.”

“It’s almost certainly not the same as your aims.”

“How can you be sure? Is yours under guard?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it among the religious artifacts in the display room?”

“Part of it is.”

“Do you have to be so mysterious? Or maybe that’s a portion of your charm.” She flashed him a smile then spoke before he could answer. “Let’s go look.” Aleria moved determinedly off, muttered a polite “excuse me” to the women inadvertently impeding access, then stepped through them, without waiting for Hanuvar to follow.

The walled garden beyond was extensively planted. A single wide path, illuminated with paper lanterns, ran along the side of the villa. Others led deeper into shoulder high lines of hedge, more sporadically lit. Curiously, one side branch was distinguished by unlit torches planted periodically along either side.

Several closed doors would have led into the manor proper, but only one of them was open onto a well-lit room. A handsome young man with a gladiator’s heavy build sat on a stool just inside the doorway.

The sentry nodded politely to Aleria and Hanuvar both. On the floor beneath the waist high first shelf on the left stood images of the peculiar animal-headed deities beloved of Hadirans. Central prominence was given to a leopard-headed goddess with bare breasts. A trio of gold and silver discs with complex Ilodonean pictographs stood in slanted plate holders on a shelf at shoulder level on the right, near a line of painted wooden figures of Ruminian horse and water spirits. A man-high stone carved with Ceori markings sat in one corner beside a closed door to the inner chambers.

Aleria’s attention had fixed upon a row of tiny bejeweled figurines with oversized heads. They glittered in the torchlight. Not at all coincidentally they were positioned nearest the guard, who kept his eyes on Aleria when she drew close enough to touch them. His gaze was only partly admiring, for he had surely noted an acquisitive gleam in her eyes.

Hanuvar’s own regard was drawn to the intricate stone carvings from Volanus, sitting in the corner across from the Ceori obelisk. Central to the three was a stone stellae of a bearded man with outspread arms, a thundercloud behind his head: Varus. This beautifully blue granite image had once graced the lectern of the central temple in Volanus. Hanuvar had been near it many times. He himself no longer felt much attachment to the gods of his people, but had to unclench his fists yet again before a dismemberment of Volani heritage for the amusement of rich Dervans. The pieces looked heavier than he’d hoped.

He and Aleria pretended interest in the rest of the exhibit, then left the room.

She touched Hanuvar’s arm and turned him down a path deeper into the garden. They passed a stone bench only a few paces beyond where the guard was posted, but kept on beyond a side passage where a tryst seemed underway, to judge by a throaty sigh and a giggle, and strolled for a far corner. Aleria led them behind a bronze dryad pouring water into a clamshell at her feet. The statue leaned out from atop a rock large enough to conceal them both as they took a seat behind it. Music swelled from beyond the garden. An entire cadre of performers played at once, which likely meant dinner was about to be served. They would most likely provide accompaniment through the first courses.

“We’re going to miss the meal,” Aleria said with a wistful look.

“I’m not after food,” he replied softly to her. “And you’re after the jewels.”

“Was I so obvious? Well, they are the most valuable and most easily removed items here, of course. They’re what you’re after too, aren’t they?” Her voice took on a peevish quality and in the poor light Hanuvar could see her bracing for an answer in the affirmative.

“No. I have a buyer for the Volani stones.”

Her slim eyebrows arched in curiosity. “That’s interesting.”

“They’re rare, now. Few who are left could carve them, or would be interested in doing so.”

She grunted agreement, then added caustically: “The last emperor managed to create an entire rarified market. How are you planning to get them out?”

“I haven’t advanced that far.” Hanuvar was much more interested in the fate of the singers; they’d been sold through a chain of buyers prior to Lartius, who remained unwilling to part with them, owing to their scarcity. “Do you have something worked out?”

“I’ve discarded a number of more involved ideas,” she admitted. “I’ve landed on a late night visit, with some tainted meat for the guard dogs they let loose.”

“What does Lartius want with all these religious images?”

“He and his little ‘Zenith’ group believe these objects have been invested with power because people have worshiped them for so long. The theory is that possession transfers some of that power to their holder.”

“But it’s the power of other gods, isn’t it?” Hanuvar asked. “I thought the Zenith was all about the hearth gods of Derva, and restoring them to prominence in households.”

“So you have been doing some homework! Yes, that’s a principle they promote, although the whole enterprise may as well have been designed to make itself money by spreading ‘secrets.’ I think Lartius is just one of those rich men who likes to collect rare things. He claims that the spiritual energy absorbed by his items can be channeled back into the Dervan hearths, which are all connected, to reinvigorate the righteous state. He’s pretty convincing, too – when he talks about it I almost think he believes it.”

“Interesting,” Hanuvar said, and she laughed at the acerbity in his voice.

“He also thinks his estate here is the central access point for channeling the energy. He claims the grounds are over an ancient mystical site belonging to the Vanished Ones. The Zenith have secret ceremonies in an old cave nearby where there are some glyphs and drawings. There will be another one tonight, because the moon is high. A propitious time for magic. Surely you know that.”

“I’ve heard it said. But I thought The Vanished Ones were villains in this play?”

“Lartius thinks he can use their own magic against them. The Vanished Ones are supposed to have left a great power hidden in the cave. Although I’ve no idea how, because I’ve been in the cave –”

“Of course you have.”

“—and I’ve seen nothing but a dank playspace for overactive imaginations. And how kind of you to assume that I am always well prepared. I’m frankly surprised at how little you know about this venture yourself.”

“It’s not a venture yet,” Hanuvar said.

“My, my. You sound a little defensive.” She patted his arm. “I heard. Just a scouting trip. You do know what’s going to happen tonight, don’t you?”

“A swearing in.”

“In the cave,” Aleria confirmed, and with a teasing smile, added more detail. “Tonight, when the moon’s at its highest, Lartius’ lot will be welcoming people into their innermost circle. You have to pay up through various rarified levels. It’s a pretty inspired scheme, really. They typically invite new folks to their party to hear about the ceremonies, but not see them, so they’ll want to be involved in later ones. I assume that’s how you got in?”

“I’m a relative of an enthusiast pursuing a worthy investment in moral rectitude,” Hanuvar said with mock gravity.

“You’re great at that ‘responsible member of society’ look.” She paused to appraise him. “What do you think, Helsa? Can we join forces?” She leaned closer. “This entire region is dripping with the foolish rich. You and I, working together, why, there’s no telling how much wealth we could get ourselves.”

“I could use more money,” Hanuvar admitted. He knew he should not prolong the moment, but wanted to hear more about her plans, and was not entirely displeased by his proximity to this vibrant, clever, appealing woman.

“I’d like to see what you spend it on. How do you disguise yourself so capably? You look older than last time. Distinguished. But not so old as at first.”

“That’s a trade secret.”

“So is this the real you?”

“Always.”

“And what were you really doing in that no name village where we met?”

“You probably won’t believe this, but I was just passing through.”

She smiled and seemed about to inquire further before the thwack of the garden door slamming closed and the clomp of hobnailed soldier’s boots on stone made clear something troubling was afoot. Lartius’ voice was raised against another, accented one; a debate about the number of initiates for ceremonies was growing heated as the men moved on toward the treasure display.

When they caught that part of the dispute entailed removal of “the treasures” Hanuvar and Aleria slipped out from behind the fountain and its interfering babble to better hear details, and they sneaked down a parallel inner path until they had arrived opposite the treasure room, crouching so as to not be observed.

Lartius stammered out a command to stand aside. The guard’s answer was clearer.

“Master, are these men harming you?”

They then heard an outcry, a sudden shout, and a thud, of something heavy striking stone.

Even the sounds of the lovers quieted.

Though soft, the accented arrogance of a silky male voice was clearly audible. “He need not have died, Lartius. That was very foolish. Now I’ll have to take more unpleasant measures to make sure there are no witnesses.”

The next moment a soldierly command was given, and an affirmative response returned, though in a language Hanuvar knew poorly. He could not parse the Ilodonean words, but they were spoken with grim certainty. The tramp of soldiers rang out on the garden pavers as he and Aleria slid into deeper shadow. From the sheath hidden under his tunic Hanuvar palmed one of his throwing blades, at the same time drawing a short weapon from his belt. Its hilt was shaped like that of a standard utility knife, but its metal was finer, the blade wider, thicker, and sharper.

Aleria pulled a thin knife from her hair; her dark eyes were wary, but alert rather than frightened.

Hanuvar kept his weapons low as he backed away, the woman retreating with him along a wandering path of shoulder-high hedges. Hanuvar had to waste no words for Aleria to keep to the grass on the sides of the stone path.

He knew better than to return to the fountain once more, where he might be trapped in a dead end with no exit. He could likely kill one of these opponents, but not much more when he was armed only with knives and they carried swords and wore armor, and were allegedly skilled warriors besides. He couldn’t tell if all four of the body guards he’d previously marked were here, but there were clearly more than two.

He and Aleria slid deep down a side path. Hanuvar glimpsed the top of an ornate arched gate at its end, another exit, but too far away, for one of the Ilodoneans could be heard jogging along the walkway and veered suddenly left, toward them. Hanuvar motioned Aleria to retreat further and back stepped just the far side of a bushy oleander. The soldier came to a halt. Hanuvar knew the man could not hear the slam of his heart, nor know that he was moments from having a knife to his throat. Behind him Aleria shifted slightly and the faint creak of her sandal seemed loud as an anvil strike.

At almost the same moment a male voice rose in pain. While it descended into a gurgle, the start of a woman shrieking was quickly cut off.

Their soldier turned and jogged off toward the noise even though the sounds of the party continued without interruption.

Hanuvar motioned Aleria back the way they had come, and down a little side path with a bench.

Now they could hear Lartius pleading with Xenxes, Terror of the West, for they were separated from him only by a single thick hedge row. The leader of Zenith had a tense and placating tone.

“—need for any of this. I won’t even hold a grudge. If you really think the timing is off, we can hold the ceremony sooner –”

Xenxes cut him off in mid-sentence, his accented words heavy with contempt.

“So only now does my power convince you. You’re so deafened by the sound of your own importance you can’t hear anyone unless they’re shouting. The timing is fine. The problem is the crowd, as I keep telling you. The secrets are for me, not for them. I want no other witnesses.”

“Initiates grow the power –”

“You’re an idiot. You hadn’t even taught those females the right notes in the chord. Tonight they will sing as I have commanded before the gate. Do you know what will happen if even the slightest thing goes wrong? My ancestors are quick to take offense.”

“I apologize–”

“Your apology is offered too late. But maybe I have a role for you, after all.”

Hanuvar missed the precise details of what Xenses intended, for the soldier returned. This time there was no missing his investigation of the path beyond the oleander and back to the wall. But thinking his previous search had secured the rest of the area, he did not venture again down the side trail where Hanuvar and Aleria hid. He and his companion reported in Ilodonean to their commander. Hanuvar recognized the word for “empty,” and Xenxes’s acknowledgment.

“Come, Lartius,” Xenxes said. “I sent Torlistes to gather the women. We’ll meet him in the cave and then I will show you true secrets. Not the ones you’ve dreamed up to parcel out to your flatterers. ”

They headed deeper into the garden, then could be heard exiting through a door with a creaky hinge. Hanuvar and Aleria waited until their footfalls receded, then she returned the blade to her hair and led the way to the treasure room.

Aleria stopped at the body of the young guard prostrate across its threshold. She looked down at him only briefly, likely judging from the widening blood pool and his own stillness that there was no help for him. Lifting the edge of her dress, she took a long step over the blood to reach the tiny jeweled statuettes. She immediately wrapped them in a dark blue fabric belt she untied from her waist, knotting them in a bundle at the small of her back.

Hanuvar knelt near the guard.

“He’s very dead.” Aleria’s complacency suggested she’d seen hard sights in her time.

He had already judged the man’s condition. It was the sword that interested him. It lay a foot to his right, only a fingerspan from the advancing blood. He lifted it, reached over the body to cut open the belt, then slid the sheath off the leather, tucked the sword home inside, and slid it into a fold of his toga.

“All they took were those Ilodonean discs,” Aleria said. “Now’s your chance to get those stones you want.”

It wasn’t his chance, at all. Xenxes had plans for the Volani vocalists, and it sounded dangerous to them. He therefore had to be stopped. Hanuvar started for the door the Ilodoneans had left by.

“Where are you going?”

“Checking on my other commission.”

He padded deeper into the garden to the thick door in the archway he’d spotted earlier. It was protected by a sturdy lock and emblazoned with a forbidding sign claiming Inner Circle Members Only were permitted beyond.

The Ilodoneans hadn’t bothered pulling the door completely to, though, so he opened it a crack, peering out onto a line of young cypress.

Aleria looked over his shoulder. “That’s the path to the cave. Lartius is such a showman. You can walk right around the villa to get there too.”

Hanuvar opened the door and passed through. Seeing that she meant to follow he held it for her then shut it carefully, frowning at the creek of hinges. He paused to listen for any other sounds, barely hearing the distant music over the sea thrashing the cliffs beyond the trees.

“You’re after the singers?” Aleria guessed.

“My buyer collects Volani cultural artifacts. Like their songs. They’ll be more valuable even than the old stone.”

“It doesn’t seem a good time. If I were you, I’d get out, now. Someone’s going to find that guard’s body soon, and besides, those Ilodoneans are planning to work magic with the women.  Dangerous magic, from way things sounded.”

“The women won’t be of any value if they’re dead. You said this ceremony was going to be conducted in the caves. That’s the trail, isn’t it?” He pointed to a gap in the trees and she assented.

He slipped the toga off of his tunic, strapped the sword sheathe around his waist, then started ahead.

She followed a pace behind, speaking softly. “Are you really sure this is wise? Your singers aren’t just going to be involved with magic. They’re surrounded by capable men in armor. With swords. Who’ve already killed this evening.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem wise,” Hanuvar said.

“…but you’re going anyway. There are safer ways to make money.”

“There certainly are,” Hanuvar agreed. “Wish me luck.”

Aleria sighed in frustration. “I like you, Helsa, but I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I understand your assessment and I wish you well.” He nodded to her and hurried on down the grassy slope beyond the cypresses. After a moment he heard the soft whisper of her sandals in the path behind him, and he glanced back to see her shaking her head, either at him or her own foolishness for following.

The sound of the surf grew louder, the scent of saltwater stronger in the air. Hanuvar spotted a man in a conical helm standing sentinel beside a screen of scraggly juniper bushes. Moon beams flared on whitecapped waves rolling across the vast dark water beyond and below him. The Ilodonean was staring idly off to the right, and Hanuvar motioned Aleria down. Probably they’d been lost up until now against the dark backdrop of hillside between them and the villa. The moon peeped through a break in the clouds, like a great eye peering through silver blue curtains.

Aleria spoke to Hanuvar’s ear. “There’s old stairs carved into the cliff. He’s probably standing watch at their head.”

“Excellent. Do me a favor and walk over that way, as though you’re taking in the view.”

Her eyes measured him. “What do you mean to do?”

“Use the advantage of your distraction. If you’re in danger, run, and I’ll handle it.”

She mulled the idea over only briefly, then sighed without sound. “Just for you, Helsa.”

Aleria sauntered left at a diagonal, putting a little sway in her walk, and the sentry noticed her after only a few steps. He called out but she pretended not to hear, passing within twenty feet of him before drawing up toward his right to stare out to sea.

The sentry trailed after, expostulating and pointing toward the villa, all but the roof of which was hidden by vegetation. She turned only then, placing a hand over her breasts in surprise.

Hanuvar came in from behind at a good clip, thinking his sound was hidden by the surf, but this sentry was no fool. He whirled when Hanuvar was eight paces out and drew a long blade.

Hanuvar’s thrown knife caught the guard in an armored shoulder, for the veteran had noted the swift movement and swung away. Pulling his other knife free as he ran, Hanuvar was on him with the villa guard’s sword, a sharp, well-balanced gladius.

The sentry struck first, for his reach was longer. Hanuvar caught the blow with his knife high in its swing, but the man slid back from Hanuvar’s sword thrust.

What then followed was the swift, silent work of professional killers.

The sentry was keenly alert to Hanuvar’s movements but let himself be steered too close to the cliff. They exchanged feint and counter thrust, well matched until Aleria dashed a few steps closer, waving her arms. The sentry was startled for only a moment, but it was enough. Hanuvar beat his opponent’s blade out of line and then kicked his calf.

The sentry yelled as he dropped eighty feet toward the surf, crashing against sharp rocks. The sound was lost against the roar of the waves, and the sea swallowed him.

Hanuvar scanned the narrow stairway descending along the left, hugging the cliff until it reached a cave opening half way toward the foaming sea. Light from within shone dully on the rocky lip before it. He saw no sign of other guards.

Aleria joined him. “Is that what you meant to do?” she whispered mordantly.

“I’d hoped to subdue and question him. You were a perfect distraction.”

“I must be losing my touch,” she said. “Or maybe I’m just not his type.”

“He was probably just a good sentry.” Hanuvar discovered the dead man’s cloak draped over a boulder, and tossed it over his shoulders. “I’ll handle it from here.”

“You’re really going through with this? Just for the singers?”

“I am. It’s going to be far more dangerous here on out. You should stay. Take in some of that nice food.”

He started down the steep, narrow steps, concentrating upon the terrain in the darkness, rather than the light illuminating the mouth of the cave. Meeting it directly would ruin his night vision. It was a shame the sentry had held onto his weapon as he fell, because Hanuvar would have liked a longer blade.

A shadow passed in front of the light source, throwing darkness across the narrow ledge where the stairs met the cave mouth. Though Hanuvar advanced with stealth, assisted by the roar of the surf, this guard, too, was unfortunately quite alert, and moved out onto the ledge just in time to see Hanuvar descending from four paces up.

The sentry called a challenge in Ilodonean. Hanuvar pointed a thumb over his shoulder as though he had something to report, then leapt the final flight.

The sentinel reached too late for his sword, only clearing half of his before Hanuvar’s gladius slashed down through a leather shoulder guard and drove through bone. The sentinel’s cry of pain was stilled when Hanuvar followed immediately with a punch to the throat. When the man put both hands up to his neck Hanuvar had time to reposition and drive the point of the gladius through his opponent’s mouth. He caught the convulsing body and dragged it into the cave with him. While the soldier died, Hanuvar scanned the surroundings, struck by their unexpected gaudiness, then traded out his gladius and its sheath for the Ilodonean’s better sword and scabbard, a twin to the one used by the first man to fall. He tried on the helmet, too, but found it too small. The shield and spear leaning a few feet inside the rocky passage were welcome, though. He slipped one over his arm and lifted the other.

A lantern well back from the door illuminated the entry way and a tunnel beyond. The passage appeared to have been broadened by human implements, for ancient pick and chisel marks were visible, though the stone itself practically sparkled with cleanliness. Lartius must have detailed a phalanx of slaves to scrub these walls regularly. Pointed glyphs had been recently drawn with yellow paint alive with lantern light. The symbols were reminiscent of those he’d seen in the ruined city Calenius had been excavating a day north of here, and Hanuvar frowned in recognition.

He heard Aleria whisper his assumed name behind him, informing him she was there.

“I thought you didn’t want to come,” he said without turning.

“There’s that Hadiran line about cats and curiosity.”

“About how it gets them killed? It’s not safe here, Aleria.”

There was a smile in her voice, and only the slightest hint that it was strained. “After seeing you in action, I’m inclined to think it’s safer near you than anywhere else. I knew you had to have been a legion man. Maybe even some kind of elite bodyguard. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been a soldier all my life,” Hanuvar said. “There may be treasure here, but I wouldn’t count on it. And if there’s sorcery, I may not be able to stop it.” He turned into the passage. She came after, as he expected. They moved quietly on and arrived at a roughly oval chamber covered in a wild profusion of carvings. These walls too had been carefully cleaned, so brightly polished they practically glowed, and these symbols had likewise been filled in with yellow paint. Two bright lanterns threw ruddy light from their crumbling niches out onto the walls and the sandy floor was swept clean and level.

A slender corridor extended further.

“That hall wasn’t here before,” Aleria said, and then, to Hanuvar’s look, she smiled. “I’m thorough.” She indicated a pair of the Ilodonean discs, each set into a round recess at head height to the sides of the tunnel’s opening. “You recognize those, don’t you? They were taken from the treasure room. This entry was flat stone before.”

Hanuvar considered the discs and the wall, and searched the sides and ceiling above the passage, where a tiny lip of stone depended from the height. He saw no winch or pulley or hinge, but it appeared as though the stone had been taken up into the ceiling. Sorcery. He frowned.

“What do you suppose they’re doing down there?” Aleria asked.

“They seek something worth killing over. But that doesn’t make it valuable to you.”

“You knew I was wanting you to suggest treasure. But they were talking about power and secrets.”

“Secrets are only valuable to the right people,” Hanuvar said. “Who might not like anyone left to know what they are.” Sword sheathed at his side, spear ready, Hanuvar preceded her into the darkness and the steep, downward sloping tunnel. A faint point of illumination shone ahead. He walked slowly, senses stretched taut. The smell of the surf had long since receded, but he grew conscious of the scent of wet stone and salt water and algae. This passage must somehow connect with the waters of the coast. A hundred paces on, their way opened into an enormous cylinder carved out of the stone stretching above into darkness and below, where it terminated in a circular reservoir of still water. To Hanuvar’s reckoning, this inner pool was lower than the sea outside. Stairs circled down along the smooth, curving wall to a wide ledge of stone beside the water.

The only light sources were two lanterns hung in slime covered niches on either side of a wide recess. That light caught gleams in the still water and burnished points along the helms and armor of Xenses and one of his crimson clad bodyguards holding Lartius by the elbow near a square post of stone about as high as the lectern once graced by the carved image of Varus in the Dervan’s trophy room. The three Volani singers huddled protectively nearby. Hanuvar could not find the other guard, who surely must be lurking out of sight.

While Lartius pleaded with Xenxes not to go through with it, whatever it was, Hanuvar headed down the stairs in the darkness. Algae and slick film coated the steps, as with long submersion, along with a profusion of barnacles.

Lartius continued addressing Xenxes. Hanuvar heard him whining about misunderstanding in the echoing place, before Xenxes cut him off. Here, the Ilodonean’s voice was loud and certain. “Put your hands to the stone, or I will beat you.”

Another voice interrupted him, speaking Ilodonean, and Hanuvar spotted what he supposed was the fourth guard stepping from an alcove in the wall beyond the lectern. This man had removed armor to don a dark tunic with silver filagree. He lifted a third Ilodonean disk, blazing with light the shade of blood.

“Prince,” Lartius said. “Please accept my apology. Can’t we get a slave for this? One of these women?”

“I need the women,” Xenxes said. “I do not need you.” He signaled, and the soldier gripped the Dervan’s arm and dragged him to the pedestal, smacking him hard across the face when he resisted. The guard then forced both the aristocrat’s hands onto the surface and leveraged something down across his wrists before stepping back. Hanuvar saw that a bar of stone seemed to have locked the Zenith leader’s hands in place, no matter that he tugged.

“You said you wanted power,” Xenxes cried. “Here leaders of old communed with the power of the deep! Together we shall see what secrets the ancients worked so hard to keep hidden!”

Only then did Hanuvar observe glyphs carved on these walls, too, for they took up a pulsing crimson glow as the robed Ilodonean placed the final disc on the pedestal’s front. Its light repeatedly flashed down across the water, a heartbeat across the inky deeps. The man in the robe pulled a hand drum from his garments and beat it in time with the pulse. The sound echoed tinnily through the vast space.

The noise concealed the scrapes of Hanuvar’s descent. He was within good spear range now, but thought it best to wait so he could charge in the follow up. So far the three Ilodoneans had other matters keeping them occupied.

Xenxes put a hand to his ornate sword hilt and faced the Volani women. “Now it’s your turn. Sing and hold the notes I taught you.”

The women shifted nervously.

“You heard me!” Xenxes’s hand rose threateningly. “Sing!”

Weakly their voices rose, one by one, forming a dark chord.

Xenxes waved them on and they grew more certain they were doing as he wished, and so raised their volume, then at a signal from the prince shifted to a second chord that held unresolved and unpleasant.

Hanuvar thought himself finally close enough to act. The wall lay on his left side, leaving his dominant hand free. In it he grasped the spear. It was a little heavier than those he was used to, and designed more for stabbing than throwing, but having carried it and tested its heft as he walked, he thought he could gauge its capabilities.

He would liked to have dropped Xenxes, or the other warrior, but rather than risking a cast in the dim against men in armor, he sent it to a softer target and caught the robed man in his chest.

The Ilodonean cried out, clawed at the weapon’s haft, then sank onto the stone. His drum bounced off the stone ledge and struck the water. The remaining guard shouted in anger and started up the stairs, spear in hand. Hanuvar closed to meet him.

Xenxes shouted at the women. “I didn’t tell you to stop. Keep singing!” They instead backed as far along the ledge as they were able.

Like the other Ilodoneans, the approaching soldier proved aggressive and certain. As soon as he was within range he jabbed at Hanuvar’s calves. Hanuvar slammed the spear blade with the long Ilodonean sword, planted a foot on a clear spot he’d noted on the stair below, and bashed the man’s wrist with his shield.

The soldier stepped back, sliding on the scummy stairs, and Hanuvar caught him in the face with a kick. The Ilodonean slid off the steps, flailing for purchase, and struck the rocky lip with a cracking thud, helmet first. His body flopped into the water.

Hanuvar advanced with care even as Xenxes, frantic now, shouted at the singers with sword raised. The prince rightly feared a spell disturbed in mid casting.

The Volani lifted their chins in defiance and the shorter of the three insulted his ancestry, though the prince likely didn’t know their language. Lartius struggled more furiously in the stone cuffs confining him, cursing at the women to help.

Xenxes let out what sounded like an oath and turned toward Hanuvar, almost in resignation. The dark steel of his blade caught the light of the blood red wall glyphs, now pulsing ominously, as though governed by a monster heart. “Fool! I am Xenxes, Terror of the West!”

Hanuvar was generally disposed to be unimpressed by men who shouted their sobriquets, but the prince continued his apparently practiced self-introduction. “I wear the helm of Iskandros the Great! My shield was carried by Hundara when he advanced against his usurpers! And my sword is that borne by the matchless Yriak!”

Hanuvar left the final stair and emerged onto the curving stone ledge at last, slippery as the stairs. “But I have the sword of Hanuvar.”

Xenxes’ voice rose in fury. “You‘re a fool to mock me! That’s one of the swords my men were carrying!”

He waited for a retort, but Hanuvar saved his breath.

“Prepare yourself! I am done with the preening arrogance of you fools from the young kingdoms! You shall see what it’s like to face a warrior of best bloodline, wearing the finest armament in the world!” Xenses raised the shield. A distinct ratcheting noise emerged from it as he advanced, and then a spray of tiny pebbles streamed out from an aperture high in its rim.

Hanuvar backstepped. Most of the little rocks fell short. The rest rebounded with a clang from his lifted shield. He slashed as he stepped forward.

Xenxes hopped back, sliding a little but not faltering, and Hanuvar came at him with a flurry of swings. Aleria shouted for the singers to hurry and climb to her. The scarred one spared a sympathetic look for Lartius, then urged the others past the combatants and up the stairwell.

Ominously, the shining pulse of the disc’s ruddy light increased its tempo.

Xenxes retreated; a circular shape high on his helm tilted down and this time glittering dust spewed forth. Probably it was meant to blind but it was activated too far away; Xenxes in any case ruined the effect by shouting and charging.

Hanuvar ducked and slid left, taking the slash of Xenxes’s sword on his shield. His back now was to the alcove so that he had a good view when a clawed white hand reached up from watery depths. It slapped the stone, and a second struck the verge a moment later, just as a spiny frill crested the still water and rose, drippping. It topped the head of a melded nightmare of ape and fish, with scales in place of fur, and staring bulbous black eyes. Lartius screamed as the thing climbed the rest of the way out of water with a croaking roar and straightened beside him. Only then was its true size made manifest, for it towered a full sword length over the Dervan, whose full-throated scream intensified until the thing reached out long spiny arms, cupped his face in taloned fingers, and casually ripped off his head.

Xenxes backed further off, shield upraised, sword warding. Hanuvar had nothing to gain either by pursuing the prince or attacking the beast, so retreated to the stairs. Xenxes addressed the corpse-colored monster as it upended the severed head and let blood drip into its fanged mouth. Hanuvar’s Ilodonean was too poor to understand his words, but Xenxes’ tone was tentative, which suggested the sea beast might have been unexpected.

Hanuvar reached the stairs and started up as fast as he dared, attention alternating between the drama below and the terrible footing.

Dripping a mix of water and blood, the thing raised its finned head and sniffed toward Xenxes, who jabbed his sword in Hanuvar’s direction as his voice rose in command.

The thing turned and its protruding black eyes seemed to lock onto Hanuvar, circling above on the stairs built into the wall. It then turned once more to the prince. It snorted, then sprang at him. Xenxes swung to face the thing, sword pointed over the shield. It was a classic defensive stance, well executed.

The beast cared not a whit; it grabbed hold of the shield of Hundara and lifted it into the air, the protesting prince along with it. The beast then flung both into the wall. The collision of armored man against stone produced both a smack and a clang. Xenses cried out in pain, and then the thing lifted him by both legs and slapped him screaming again and again into the wall until he could make no sound.

It was then the red pulsing light ceased and the water level climbed. This was no steady creep, but a vast surge as though an immense pump was being worked. In a span of three of Hanuvar’s steps it had risen ten feet, roiling as it came.

Hanuvar threw away his shield and dared to increase his speed. Multiple body lengths of stairs still turned above. He cast off the sword and his cloak but it was too little, and when he was ten feet from the top the water swept him up.

He fought just to stay afloat, striving to remain close to the wall even as the water pulled him away.

Finally the seawater ceased its rise, just shy of the platform where a wide eyed Aleria and the singers awaited him, frantically calling his assumed name. He struck out for them, felt solid ground beneath his feet and splashed up the final four stairs, submerged now by the waves.

Something grabbed his ankle in a vice grip.

Had he time to think he would have known that the strength of the thing that had come up under him was too great to fight. But he reacted with skills and instincts honed from a hundred battles, turning and sighting his target and striking at almost the same time. There was the finned head and its protruding fish eyes, there was the fanged mouth; stretched up ahead of it was an arm and a pale white hand, lightly scaled and elongated, but human enough in form he knew just where to drive his knife point before the grip on his leg tightened.

He’d struck the proper nerve; the hand released him and he scrambled to retain purchase on the tiny bit of land that represented life. The fanged mouth opened and the second hand raked a blow across his thigh that nearly slammed him down. He struggled to his feet as the creature roared its rage, and pulled itself onto the stone surface while Hanuvar passed with Aleria into the long hallway, the two of them running at full strength. She’d already shouted the singers forward, and they were halfway down the hall. From too close behind came the pad of large wet feet, and bellows-like breaths.

The moment they reached the circular room, Hanuvar spun and yanked a shining Ilodonean disk from the side of the doorway.

Instantly a slab of stone grated down from the ceiling. Aleria pulled the second disc free but it did nothing to accelerate the slow fall of the curving barrier. The determined sea thing slopped on, the sound of its chase echoing towards them. Hanuvar saw one of its clawed feet sliding forward just before the door slammed home at last.

Only then did Hanuvar realize how heavily he himself breathed. He paused and leaned against the side of the wall, as blood and water stained the sand around his feet. He registered the sting of cuts along his thigh and various other scrapes he must have accumulated in the mad scramble for the ledge. Beside him, Aleria too gasped.

“No treasure,” Hanuvar said.

Aleria patted his shoulder. “We’ve got these discs.” Her eyes swept to the door, alert perhaps for signs of it opening behind them. Then she met his eyes, her look uncharacteristically serious. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything braver that what you did tonight.”

“Or as stupid,” he suggested.

She chuckled.

“You’re the brave one,” he said, thinking of how she had continued to come after, for no good reason other than friendship.

“Oh, I was never in real danger. Those young women must really mean a lot to you.”

“My client will pay a lot for them,” he said.

“He’d better! Who is he?”

Hanuvar chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“It’s Hanuvar, isn’t it? You’re working for him, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m no fool,” she said. “And everyone knows he had spies all over the place.”

“They must not be good spies, if everyone knows.”

She looked sidelong at him.

They found the three Volani waiting at the mouth of the cave. The scarred one had picked up the gladius he’d left beside the body of the second Ilodonean he’d killed. Though tentative, they greeted Hanuvar and Aleria with relief, thanking both in broken Dervan.

“Oh, thank him, not me,” Aleria said.

Hanuvar needed no thanks. He spoke to them in Dervan. “We can leave now.”

Aleria peered around the corner at the stairs along the cliff. “Still clear,” she said. “But we’d best get moving.” She likely feared that the rest of the Zenith initiates might still intend to descend when the moon was highest. She started up at a swift pace.

Hanuvar gestured for the women to precede him. They eyed him in a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “Don’t worry,” he said, this time in Volani. “Things will be much better for you here on out. I’ll get you into the household of a kinswoman, where you’ll be freed. We must keep our plans to ourselves until we are away from my stylish friend.”

They blinked in astonishment but didn’t seem quite capable of digesting their change of fortune. Probably they had witnessed one too many surprises over the course of the last hour.

“Thank you,” the scarred one said finally. “We can never thank you enough. Your Volani is excellent,” she added.

“I’ve been speaking it a long time,” Hanuvar said, and then the four of them advanced into the moonlight and up to freedom.

 

[1] Lartius’ writings were published monthly in widely circulated booklets that attracted a small but devoted cadre of readers, despite their promulgation of wild speculations lacking logic, internal consistency, or basic credibility. I spoke with former adherents later in life, and while some claimed they had only read his tracts for amusement, others still clung tenaciously to his “brilliant” insights about hidden connections that lay behind widely divergent incidents in our history.

–Silenus

[2] Hanuvar first met Aleria during the course of the events described by Antires in the account of “The Autumn Horse,” and recruited her to assist him in his theft of gold and information from the Dervan treasury detailed by Antires in “The Cursed Vault”.
–Sosilos

[3] By this point in his career, Metellus had lost an eye on one side of his face and gained three parallel scars upon the other. –Sosilos

 

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