They lived across the mountains in the waste lands, the beast-men. They had always dwelled there, for as long as living memory could recall, living nomadically, sparring amongst each other as well as the civilized folk who lived on the western side of the ridges. They were fodder for those powerful enough to command them into armies and had served those with little conscience for the destructive path they cut through the tame lands of the west and the south. Schneider had used them off and on for several centuries of subjugation. The four lords of havoc had appropriated their dubious loyalty in the years after Schneider's first death.
Gara had never liked the stench of them. Or the bestial way they fought. There was no skill to the beast-men, no grace of battle. Merely brutal, animal force that was fine for a front line charge where one expected the forerunners to be shredded, but held little more appeal to a man who had spent his life trying to attain the perfect skill, the perfect swordsmanship, the perfect posture in battle. He had never commanded the beast-men in battle, that had been Kall-Su and Arshes Nei, and he felt no particular remorse in slaughtering them when they attempted to cross the mountains back into the civilized lands of the western continent.
He had slaughtered a fair amount of them in the past year. He and his ninjas and the forces that Arshes Nei had lent him when she journeyed with him to the mountains. They were still stretched thin, with five hundred miles of passable mountains to patrol and so very many small hamlets and villages left unprotected in all that rugged terrain. More often than not, they found the beast-men who had slipped across the border by the trail of dead they left in their wake.
There was an orphanage in the lee of the central palisade where he held his command post. Arshes had built it not long after her arrival in the steep wooded lands of the eastern mountains. She had ridden with him and seen the faces of those children and women bereft of village and families to protect them and she had gained purpose to her life. She strove with single minded determination to bring those helpless wounded ones under her wing and teach them that they were not without hope. That they could, with the proper help, care for themselves in the outside world.
With those children, orphans of an army she had once led, she was happy. She smiled when they had healed enough mentally and physically to laugh, and Gara smiled with her. She whirled into a mad rage when she came upon the murderers and none withstood her wrath. And Gara took vengeance with her. He was content, because she, to a certain degree was. When she laughed with him, or smiled at one of his wry witticisms, his heart soared. He did not expect more of her, because he did not know if she were capable of more, so he took what she offered. He took her friendship, which she had always given and cherished it.
Life was good. There were enemies to banish which well deserved it and a woman near at hand which he held in highest regard. It was only one day, deep into fall, when snow had already began to sprinkle down upon the evergreen forests of the Eastern Mountains, that he had a sense of premonition. He was not generally one to foresee the future. It was not a magic he possessed. His magics were more guttural and earthy and not at all the spectacular thing that Arshes commanded. But he felt something all the same. He sat at camp with ten of his ninja, four days south of his main compound and quite suddenly thought of Yoko. She drifted into his mind and he shivered, for dread omen accompanied her ghostly presence. All day he rode with the thoughts that something was wrong with Yoko nagging at his mind. By the evening, after he and his men had found the band of beast-men they had been tracking, the sense of wrongness was overwhelming.
He sent two of his men back to the main fort to tell Arshes where he had gone and with the rest he sat out southward, towards the green meadows of Meta-Rikan.
Four days journey and he reached the main eastern trade road and stopped at one of the various road stations to resupply. The guards manning the past were unprepared for his visit. They were nervous and wary at the presence of the Lord Protector of the East and his ninja's in their barracks. They were quick enough to fulfill his requests for fresh mounts and enough supplies to tide them over for a journey to Meta-Rikan.
It was only after another day's travel that a band of men met them on the road. Armed holy guard and several men in priestly robes.
"My lord Gara." A priest held up his hand in greeting, and Gara lifted thick brows at the obvious foreknowledge of his passage. From the look of men and horses they had ridden hard to intercept them on this road.
"You head down the road to Meta-Rikan?" The priest asked. It was an obvious destination, since nothing else of import existed beside this road, but Meta-Rikan, seventy odd miles to the south.
"I do. Have priests taken to surveying travelers nowadays? What business is it of yours?"
"Business of the regency of the southern alliance, my lord." The priest replied smoothly, though the armed guard at his back showed signs of quiet unease. Rightly so, confronting Gara. Even though their numbers were greater than his, there could be no doubt in any of their minds where the greater force lay. Not with the well oiled hilt of the Murasame blade protruding from a scabbard at his back.
"What business, prey tell?"
"A delicate foray into truce with the bandit kingdoms of the west coast. His majesty, King Larz has invited the seven bandit kings into Meta-Rikan with assurances of no hostility. Your presence in Meta-Rikan, my lord, would surely be perceived as a threat and might shatter all hope of alliance."
"Alliance with a bunch of thieves and pirates? Why is he bothering?" Gara snorted in disbelief. "Better to rally forces and send them all to join their ancestors. They'll only stab him in the back when the chance arises."
"Be that as it may, my most gracious lord Gara," the priest made a sign of blessing in the air before him. "The King asks that you, nor any other force that might be perceived as a gathering of might, heed his wishes and stay away from Meta-Rikan until the parlay is over."
"And when might that be?"
"Send a messenger in a week or so to see. One never knows with political bargaining."
Gara scanned the faces of the men before him. Grim faced guards and the passive faced priests, both of whom wore about their persons the symbols of the High God. The new religion. Since when did the king use priests as his messengers?
"All right. My business can wait."
There was an visible exhalation of relief among the men at arms. The priest smiled sweetly. "If there was business you had to attend, you might conduct it though me. I return to the city in a few days time."
"No. Nothing of import." He held his hand with and with a sharp motion directed his men to turn about. They rode away from the holy guard without a backward glance.
"If they've sense, they'll follow a ways to make sure I kept to my word." He told his commander when they'd gone a goody distance. Go back to the compound and tell Lady Nei that something is up in Meta-Rikan. Tell her, if her curiosity is aroused, to use discretion."
"And where will you be, lord Gara?" The commander asked with the air of a man who knew very well the answer to his question.
"Meta-Rikan."
"Alone?"
"Of course. I would hate to bring a force of arms that might chase the bandits from the walls of that fair city. They'll never know I was there, my friend. Now go and deliver my message to the lady."
He veered sharply from the road towards a copse of trees that would hide his divergence from any following them. If he had felt a wrongness before it was ten fold now. There was most certainly something afoot in the deep south.
The last time Lily had seen her family was when she was four. They stood on the thin, muddy road beside the thatch hut that had been her home, watching as the slaver they had sold her to for rice and flour to last them another hard winter, carried her away. She was never certain if she cherished the memory or hated it. But she kept it close to her heart, for it was all she had of who she had been. She was no one now, because slaves had no identity. None but at the whim of their masters. Fifteen years a slave and she had forgotten what it was like to be free. It hardly mattered anymore. One became used to the submission. She had a skill and a passion that made her valuable. She had the gift of song and the power to sway men's moods with her voice. It was, she had been told on occasion more than a natural talent. It had the taste of magic, her song and her ability to latch onto the mood of her audience. Her first master had sold her when she was eight to a traveling company of performers, where she had learned instruments and dance and the secrets of goading coin from an audience. Then she had been bought by a lord, who had seen her perform and coveted her for his own. She had been a lovely, dark young girl then, thirteen winters old. She had sung for him and warmed his bed and never once cried for it. It was the lot of a slave. Her final master, the mage Vernon, had sensed the magic her voice carried and bartered for her, trading his magical services -- the lord's son at the time had been cursed with impotence and the lord feared ever having grandchildren to which he might hand down his lands. She had serious doubts whether Vernon had actually cured the impotence or only made it seem so, for the morning after the lord's son had successfully bedded his wife, Vernon had made haste from his lands with Lily in tow.
For two years she had been the slave of a hedge mage, earning more often than not more coin from her song than he did plying his arcane trade. It had gotten worse for him the last few years, what with the public opinion of magic souring with the advent of the Prophet's teachings. There were cities and towns in the far south that he dared not show his face. He lamented about how rich the pickings had been a mere ten years past. She never commented one way or another, not being one for useless talk. She had learned that a slave spoke when spoken to. Her expression was her song. She was content enough in that single outlet of emotion.
Lily was nineteen years old. She thought she might pass twenty in the possession of Vernon the hedge mage, but it was not to be so. Judas had not yet come to the point of it's southern sister, Meta-Rikan in banning the practice of witchery, and yet with one simple and harmless incantation by Vernon the both of them found themselves in the custody of the holy guard, waiting miserably for the censure of Judas's high priest. Only Judas high priest did not come. The man that came to see them wore the symbol of the High God at his breast and wore the dust of the road on his robes. Guards of a different nature crowded the room, mingling with the holy guard who had apprehended them.
Vernon winced squeamishly, looking from face to face with the air of man who lived his worst nightmare. He could not quite meet the eyes of the priest in charge. Lily could not and stared mutely at the floor, forgotten behind her master.
"You saw him?" The priest demanded of Vernon.
"Saw who, your grace?" Vernon's usually haughty voice broke.
"Dark Schneider, you foul warlock."
Vernon blinked, shocked. He opened his mouth and shut it, speechless. "Dark -- he's dead. Everyone knows that. How would I see ---"
"Shut up. A man and a woman. He would be hard to miss. Striking of feature, long silver hair. She would have reddish hair and brown eyes. Beautiful. You bargained with her at a tavern."
Vernon couldn't stop blinking. "I saw them-- yes. But he wasn't -- he had no magic -- I would have felt it -- he could not have been."
"What did they wish of you?"
"He wore wards on his wrists. She wanted me to break them. I couldn't."
"No doubt. What else did they say?"
"Nothing. Nothing, my lord. I swear by the name of god."
"Never utter the name of god, you foul practitioner of the black arts." The holy priest cried out and touched Vernon on the forehead. Vernon squeaked, his eyes bulged then almost seemed to shrink in their sockets, steam escaping them. He fell to his knees, then toppled over onto his face, quite, quite dead.
The only ones who seemed shocked were the holy guards of Judas. The men who had come with this dire and frightening priest moved not at all. The priest's eyes turned to Lily. He strode across to her and she huddled against the wall, head down, straight dark hair obscuring her face.
"And what are you?"
"A minstrel, your holiness." One of the Judas priests murmured.
He reached out and touched her jaw, lifting it so that he might see her face. "A minstrel. And something more, I think. I have a weakness for song." He let her go, turned and spoke sharp orders to his men, who scrambled in orderly fashion to do his bidding. Someone came and took her arm, one of his men. She thought she had a new master. A powerful and terrifying one. They pulled her past the body of Vernon and would not even let her pause to shut his wide, open eyes. For the first time since she had been sold to her first master, she felt like crying. But she did not. She had learned long ago, that tears only worked for pampered, free women, not for the likes of her.
Yoko shuddered with effort, sweat beading her forehead, hands shaking as she sought to master a spell that should have taken weeks of study and preparation even to attempt. Spell casting was not an easy labor, even the simple ones, which Schneider assured her this was. If it were effortless then everyone would be doing it. The only thing that saved the world from being filled with magic happy wizards was the fact that it was damned hard. Even if one was born with the gift of power. It took concentration and faith and a stamina of spirit that would wreck a weaker person. Not to mention meticulous analyzation and groundwork.
"I -- I think I got it that time." She breathed as she lowered her hands and stared at the dull metal bracelets on his wrists, which rested on a moss covered long between them. The two of them knelt on either side of the log. His eyes gauged her, considering. He had to take her at her word, himself having no ability to discover for himself if the Trace spell had been clouded.
They were deep in the forest, almost a half day's travel from Judas. There had been no sound of pursuit yet. Which did not mean none was on their trail. Which in turn meant more riding. Yoko was sore and tired and wished she had done more riding during the past three years instead of sedately existing within the confines of Meta-Rikan. Her legs ached abominably. She rose with a groan and a miserable glare at the horse which had caused her pain. The animal placidly returned the stare, mouth full of leaves it had stripped from a nearby tree.
Schneider put his hands on her shoulders, fingers kneading sore flesh. "Are you all right?"
"No." She moaned. "I want a hot bath."
"You missed your chance." He murmured next to her ear. She shivered all over, from the touch, from his breath on her skin. With a little grimace she slipped out of his grasp and started towards the horse.
"We might as well get going again. I don't know how we're going to get east from here. Gara's probably already in Meta-Rikan, wondering where WE are."
"No -- he's not."
There was something in his voice that made her catch her breath. She turned, looked up at his face. He diverted his glance from hers, tightening his lips.
"What do you mean?" she asked in a small voice.
"Your messenger never got through, Yoko."
"How -- how do you know?"
"Angelo told me. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand. I sent Linden east secretly. The Prophet wouldn't have known."
"He knew because he can pull thoughts out of people's minds, Yoko. He intercepted him. He killed him probably, because he was your ally and mine. Gara doesn't know."
It was like he had hit her in the stomach. She staggered back against the horse, pain in her gut rushing up to her chest like a heart attack. No. No. She could not have sent Linden to his death. She could not have been responsible for that.
"You don't know he's dead." She whispered.
"Angelo told me he was. I believed him. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" she cried. "He trusted me. He did it for me and was killed for it. He was my friend." The tears came, spilling down her cheeks, invading her mouth with their salty taste. Her throat felt raw. She had killed Linden. It was her hand that had sent him out and her fault he was dead. Schneider reached out for her and she slapped his hand away.
"Don't. Just don't." She hissed. "You don't care. What's one more death to you?"
She snatched the reins and started walking, not having the strength to mount, what with her legs shaking and her vision blurred from tears. He followed, but she hardly heard. At the moment she hated him, because whenever he came into her life death and destruction followed. She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, sniffling back her sorrow. The horse nuzzled at her shoulder. It left a great wet spot of saliva on her cloak. She drew a shaky breath and asked.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"The time didn't seem right."
"The time---?
"I didn't want to upset you."
She whirled, a sudden hysterical rage upon her. "Upset me? How dare you make that judgment for me. What give you the right to decide what I can deal with and what I can't. I've lived long enough without your protection to survive just fine without it now. How dare you?" The more she talked, the angrier she got.
She slammed the heels of her hands into his chest hard enough to make him stagger a step backwards. "Don't ever presume not to upset me again." She cried. "Go be valiant to someone who wants it like Arshes or Sheela. Damn you!!" She tried to hit him again and he caught her this time before she could land a blow, pulling into the circle of his arms. She struggled, furiously fighting the embrace, crying and cursing, until he braced himself against a tree to gain better leverage to control her in her frenzy.
It got through to her finally that he was whispering over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." And she didn't know what for. Linden's death, her guilt, her rage. His own lack of remorse where mortal men's lives were at stake. She sobbed and collapsed against him, fists tangled in the material of his cloak. He slid down the tree, holding her cradled against him, solid strength where her own was all shuddery and fleeting. Another time and he might have taken advantage of the closeness, of her desperate presence in his arms, but now, she had unnerved him. She could sense it in his body, in the cadence of his breathing.
He held her and did nothing more than hold her until the tears dried up and the trembling ceased. After that, she pulled away, exhausted and stripped of emotion and stared at him. His eyes were wary, uncertain how to deal with the depths of her grief. Not sure where he stood in the hierarchy of blame she placed for Linden's death. He was there, to be certain, but held not so high a place as she did herself.
"We've got to go." She whispered hoarsely. "We've wasted enough time." She struggled out of his arms, climbed to her feet and went to her horse. He followed, slowly. She did not look back. She stared into the darkening shadows of the forest ahead, displaced and disheartened. Before, she had felt hope. Now she felt as if the world were closing in on her. She had known Angelo hated Schneider, but she had not known the lengths he would go to prevent succor. She had not known fully, what monster whispered in the ear of her king and sat at the head of the new religion all of the south had embraced. She wanted to know. Schneider knew more than he was telling, of that she was sure. Quietly she asked.
"Tell me about the Prophet."