Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (7 page)

“They would destroy you if they knew what you are. Without hesitation, they would end your miserable little existence,” Malvornick said, turned on his heel, and began walking into the lit interior of the ballroom.

“Perhaps so, Duke, and perhaps one day it will happen, but today is not the day. Your plans would spoil if you moved to take action against me now. Ever wonder how much I know of those plans, Duke?” Nomed asked to the Duke’s back as he left earshot.

The next morning more than a dozen men, women, and children were found dead in the streets of the capital of Humbrey. They had been violated and torn apart, many found partially eaten by teeth that did not belong to any animal. The authorities could not find any witnesses or survivors. One death they did not ever discover was in the rooms of Duke Malvornick. One of his entourage was found dead of natural causes, odd for a creature that could not die in a natural way. The only mark was a smiley face traced on its left buttock with a grease pencil, which was left planted in the creature’s arse.

Chapter 5: Tarnish

“All rivers lead to the ocean, and then you are at Tarra’s tender mercies.”

Hydentia, High Priestess of Tarra

5854 – Thon – Jordar – Lasin

The group had traveled for three nights, but woke early on Rogen’s command and finished their journey by noon of the last day. The tops of the buildings of Tarnish came into view as they moved alongside the river that forced its way north into the desert. The river was shallow, brackish, and didn’t move much, not allowing for much travel on its waters except by flat bottom rafts, and even those often had to dig their way out of sand bars that appeared overnight. The day was cloudless and the sun beat down on the sands, which now had scattered scrub bushes and sparse grasses dotting the landscape. Herds of goats and their shepherds could be seen and smelled, gathered in small groups under the shade of the few trees and hillsides. Calleus finished his waterskin once he saw the town, and exhaustion crept into everyone’s movements except for Rogen’s. Taktak leaned heavily on his staff, and Sybia had pulled the hood over her dingy white robe over her head to give her some shade.

“Tarnish was a good idea that never made it.” Rogen said with a wry grin, continuing with his history lesson of the seaport, pointing things out to Cite as he explained them. “It had been built to be a glorious seaport. They hoped for it to be a grand gateway to the desert lands. The master merchants planned to irrigate and renew the whole area into an oasis that spanned many kilometers. They dug the river out to help with crops, farming, and livestock. The buildings were works of art, though it is hard to see it now. They display arches and domed roofs that are capped in brass and copper that, at one time, had been polished to a high shine. Now, they are how the city gained its namesake, a monument to broken men who gave up on an impossible dream. At one time, the city could be seen in the sun from miles away as it glittered and gleamed in the distance. A large part of this was done using the slave labor supplied over two hundred years ago by Rogen the Plague, one of my predecessors. It was a perfect symbiotic relationship. They set the main port at the mouth of the river, and planned three sister cities. One at the ‘Y’ of the river to the north and one at the end of each of the two branches further to the north. The delta between the three sister cities was meant to be fertile and green.

“After it was built the Rogen of that era, who favored the sea, took to pirating using the seaport as a base of operations. He was so successful that soon the whole sea off the coast became known as the ‘Sea of the Great Plague’ and merchants shifted their trade routes to avoid losing their cargo, crew, passengers, and sometime even their lives to Rogen the Plague. Trade died for the city. The domes were no longer polished, and the desert retook most of the river. Due to the now dull green, gray, and black domes and the gritty pock marked look the scouring desert winds and sands gave to the buildings, the name it had been given before was lost in time, and the sailors and pirates that dared to come close to it renamed it Tarnish. The two sister cities had been given back to the desert’s hunger.”

Rogen and Cite entered the city through the north gate. No guards stopped them or questioned why they were here; instead they were stooped in an alcove playing dice. There was no reason for an army to attack this place and the guards grew lazy, only bothering to check caravans when they thought there was a bribe to be had. Rogen sneered at the men, disgusted by their slovenly and unkempt appearances and attitudes. The people were draped in cloth to keep them insulated from the sand and sun. Goats were herded down the street, and camels made throaty noises to show their irritation. The smell of decades of dung hung in the air. The salty smell of the ocean mixed with the sweat of men and rotting fish baking in the sun.

“The city is situated on the west of the river and had three gates, and as you saw when we approached,” the Rokairn continued as they walked through the maze of streets, “only two are still open. Whole portions of the city were abandoned over time, as less people inhabited it. The government occasionally offers free lots, houses, storefronts, or titles to anyone who would go into the deserted part of town and clean out the refuse, people, and desert sands to rebuild it. It rarely lasted more than a few months before it is empty once again, except for the occasional beggar looking for a place to sleep, howling winds, and scorpions.”

Rogen knew his way around the run down city and led his young charge without hesitating. “I have traded here often.” Cite gave him a questioning look and he added, “Not just in flesh but in goods also. Keep up; I know a reputable inn close by.”

They made their way to the southeast corner, where the river joined the sea. The experience was new for Cite. He had only been to a few cities to the north of his village amongst the hills, forests, and fields. He was used to crops being sold, handmade wood objects being reasonable, and even some worked metals for prices that were not too bad. He had even been to the fish markets of Akar Lake, and he remembered the smell of fish there. It had been powerful and sharp but after a half hour or so, you grew accustomed to it. Tarnish was different. The desert sun did things to people, and if it made the smell of people sharper, then it did much more to the stench of fish.

The buildings were either stone or cloth. There was very little wood. If it wasn’t stone, it was made to be taken down and thrown away. Canvas tarps covered the narrow market streets, carts had awnings, shops had doors that covered the whole front of the building, and every one of them stood wide open. People crowded into smaller areas here, as if they would rather deal with the press of bodies than walk any further than they had to in the blazing sun.

“There are no more than one or two thousand people in this town, and they all come to the market at mid-day. It is the time to be out of the sun, drink wine, and swap gossip,” Rogen explained. “During the early day and late evening is when most business takes place, and the streets are full of people.”

After warning Cite to keep his pouches covered with a loose sash and to tie his dagger’s handles to the sheaths Rogen allowed Cite to stop and look at different booths. “Pickpockets and petty thievery is a way of living here,” Rogen explained.

The Rokairn sent Sybia to find supplies, telling Taktak to stay with her in case of trouble. He told Calleus to find his contacts and inquire about business dealings. Rogen stopped at many stalls and at a few shops. He knew numerous people and had business to take care of while in the marketplace. The prices Cite saw here were different from what he accustomed to seeing. Spices were cheap, so was silk and other things he thought of as rare. Metalworkers hawked their wares for a fraction of what he would have paid at home, but food, wines, and common items were double what he would have seen at the markets in the north. Also, many merchants here kept scales to weigh coins since more than one country’s tender were presented and the weight of the gold or silver could vary. Other goods were apparent that Cite had never seen before. Women waved and called to men, practically spilling out of their loose billowy clothes. There wasn’t any doubt what they were selling. Cite saw smoot and other drugs sold openly; he even saw a place that apparently catered to people using such drugs. Even though he was traveling with Rogen, the thing that made him stop in his tracks was the slave market. He was stunned.

It was a covered square with a well in the center, and crowded with people. One side was a walkway where the slave owners could pay the local government for an allotted amount of time to display their human merchandise. Some of the larger and more successful slave traders owned one of the surrounding buildings and could sell their stock from inside where it was cool. Those merchants had healthier and more robust slaves and charged more. The less successful slave traders had to keep their stock sitting in the sun or in tight bunches crowded into any available shade. Most of the slaves looked listless and drained. Flies landed on them, bugs crawled across them, and even the rats that scurried in the shadows looked healthier. A few people recognized Rogen and waved, others glared.

“This is what you did?” Cite asked with an outraged look. “How could you treat people like this?” Rogen grabbed him by his collar and yanked him around a corner.

“First, lower your voice. Not for my sake, but for your own so they do not decide to knife you from behind to shut you up. Second, no,” Rogen pointed at the market place, “this is not what I do.” Rogen loosened his grip but continued to hold the front of the shirt and pulled his face close to his own. “These people sicken me. I would not treat swine this way. Think about it, Cite. Did you see anyone in my city who looked like this? You heard how I run, well ran, my business. I taught people the value of work and of themselves. You have heard my philosophy on how to treat, train, and test people for the life I would give them.”

Cite nodded, and Rogen released his grip on the boy’s shirt.

“Now, let us find the inn and get a decent meal.”

Rogen led them to an inn overlooking the docks. It didn’t have a name, just a sign swinging in the meager breeze that showed a green onion on sinking boat.  It had a wrap-around porch with tables that were shaded by a second floor balcony that also had tables and in turn was shaded by tarps. All the shutters were wide open and it looked as if it had been white washed within the last year. They entered a large common room with a bar that ran along the open windows so it could service both the customers outside as well as those inside. The entire back wall was open doors the size of barn doors, and the kitchen was outside in a courtyard – shaded by tarps overhead - with a low wall dividing it from the common room. The only solid walls were the outside corner wall and the inside wall that held the stairway to the rooms and tables upstairs.

By the time they entered the inn, dinner was in full swing. The place was crowded but not noisy, due to the open atmosphere. A few people nodded or discretely waved to Rogen. It smelled more of cooking meat and fish than of sweat. Smoke lingered in the air from the cooking fires, various pipes and hookahs, as well as the occasional cheroot. They looked around for a table, and Cite headed for the first two seats he saw at one of the long common tables. Rogen’s hand on his arm stopped him and pulled him towards the low wall separating the kitchen.

After a moment’s quiet discussion with the large swarthy man tending the spit and cooking fires, Rogen steered Cite towards a table at which the man had pointed. A serving wench was clearing it of its occupants. When the meal was brought, they dined on lightly seasoned goat with leeks - a house specialty - flat bread, and drank water. Cite watched the crowd around him, trying not to look like a gaping hayseed on his first trip out. Rogen surveyed the area, noting everything he needed to know, and proceeded to eat in a quick and efficient manner. Afterwards, he leaned back and lit a cigar, putting his feet up on the extra chair, spending the next few hours listening to the local gossip with half closed eyes.

Once the sun had set, the cool night breeze stole away the day’s heat. Rogen waved the skinny serving girl over and handed her a few coins.  She smiled at him saucily, tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, winked, and said, “Follow me, boys,” and led the way upstairs with an enticing sway to her hips. She led them to a door that looked like all the others, produced a key from her bodice and unlocked it. With a smile, she leaned against it, opened it and gestured the two men into the dark interior. Rogen led the way, with Cite following behind, looking everywhere in case it was a trap.

The woman closed the door, enveloping them all in darkness. A moment later light flared to life as the serving wench lit an oil lamp. Her smile was gone and was replaced with a serious demeanor.

“Rogen, what the hell happened?” she asked, a worried wrinkling the bronzed skin around her green eyes. Not waiting for an answer, she pushed past the two men and felt at the back of the closet. “I have heard of more than one straggler from your place coming into town in the past days. Are the rumors true?”

“Well, Michellette, it depends on what those rumors are saying, but I am not at liberty to discuss much yet. Perhaps I will let you know later.”

With an understanding nod, she dropped the topic and gestured at the now open door in the back of the closet. “I believe you know the way,” she said as Rogen stepped past her and reached into the opening, grasping metal rungs embedded in the wall that were unseen in the dark. Cite followed once Rogen had descended.

She closed the hidden panel behind them, and Cite heard muffled moans begin in the room they had just left. Light filtered up from below, and the mage followed Rogen. He could not be sure, but he thought they passed other openings on the way down. They reached the bottom after twenty-four rungs by Cite’s count. Oil lanterns lit the room, which was furnished with only a table and three chairs. A man sat in the chair across the table with a crossbow leveled at the two men, and he looked like he meant business.