the Cult of the Black Lotus

By Norman X. Scozzafova

The gods often make use of heroes. More often, though, they make use of those less than heroic. Like those bent on revenge, whether served hot or cold, consuming the bearer from within. It is a thing that should be avoided at all costs.

Even with that understanding, a young knight embarks on a personal vendetta against the men who killed her parents. This all-consuming goal has been the only purpose for which she was thought to have survived. Is such a purpose enough to keep one going?

If the gods find it useful, it most certainly is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Oct 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463400982

Book preview

THE CULT OF THE BLACK LOTUS

By Norman X. Scozzafova

MARTIAN PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2018 by Martian Publishing Company

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No portion of this volume may

be reproduced in any format

without the express written

permission of the copyright holder.

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to persons or

organizations, living or extinct,

is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

So ye've come about the room, have ye? The beady eyes narrowed as the grin broadened.

The hooded figure on the doorstep grunted brusquely and laid a tanned hand on the well-worn scabbard dangling from the shoddy belt.

The magistrate drew back a little. I'm not one to be intimidated, if that's what ye're thinkin'. Yew kin take yer threats elsewhere an' th' divil with yew. A pale smooth hand made the warding motion.

The cloaked figure's weathered hand fiddled with the scabbard until a coin purse tied securely to it came free. The string was loosed and the shadowed face turned back to the older man, as if questioning or debating.

Well, I'll still not be intimidated! The palm appeared open toward the stranger. Couldna figure what ye planned to dew with the sword, stranger. There's dimoons afoot these days and you cannot step tew lively, ye know. He glanced anxiously back to the pouch, setting easy in the other's hand, string loosened, waiting. It'll be tew coppers a week an' yew'll have yer own entrance 'round the back. A plate of food at supper if ye've a mind, but no ale – I'm right strict haboot that – and use of the tub for a bath… he paused to grin, … once a week if ye've ever a mind. He chuckled at his own supposed wittiness. And every week paid in advance. The fingers wriggled a little in anticipation.

After the briefest pause, the shadowed eyes seeming to bore through the thrifty senility of the man, the rough hands opened the pouch and poured a few coins into the trembling fingers.

Ah, a trusting sort, are ye? Practiced eyes quickly reduced the vision to numbers. Five coppers and a silver groat, eh? That'll give ye four and a half weeks' fare, give or take. A chuckle. I trust yew'll not wish to be disturbed much then, I take it? He waited for the nod he knew would follow, then nodded himself. Good. Come around this way, then, an' I'll shew it to ye. And I trust I'll not see yew again? He cackled when no response seemed forthcoming from the figure following his crabbed footsteps. No matter. If yew are still about when the lease is up, I'll be happy to extend it… on payment, of course.

Their path led from the vestibule of the one-step-up opening onto the street to a side alley not wide enough for a horse and thence to the small rear yard of the townhouse. The magistrate stopped at the end of the alley, raising a hand to indicate the obvious.

These steps will take ye up to the room. And it's only got th' one entrance, if ye catch my drift. The arm lowered and he winked. If ye be finding yerself on the wrong side of an altercation, heh-heh, ye'll be cornered in there. An' seein's how I'm with the constabulary hereabouts, yew'd best not bring yer troubles to my door. He straightened himself to the full extent of his rather short stature. I believe I have made my conditions aboondant clear. Good day to ye. Whisper filled the vacuum where he had stood.

The stranger walked to the steps and ascended to the new home, the new base of operations for the next several weeks. The door at the top of the stair was not settled completely on its rusty hinges, but a couple of sturdy butts with a knife handle would cure that problem. Inside, though, was quite another matter.

Muldaur, I do believe you've bitten off a little more than usual… A wry chuckle. As usual. A bad habit, talking to oneself when in unfamiliar surroundings, but the room had felt clean. Its physical condition was a damned sight far from that determination. I've slept in cleaner pig sties… and for a slimmer fee, as well.

With a chuckle, Muldaur let down the rucksack from a shoulder and began shrugging out of the heavy traveling cloak, the sword belts, the tunic, the protective pads, the mail shirt, the leather jerkin, until clad only in linen blouse and breeches. The task of cleaning was going to require more supple movement than afforded all the paraphernalia of war.

Had the magistrate seen what he assumed was a burly mercenary warrior transform into this tall but lean young woman, he might have put his other foot in the grave as well. And Muldaur was not about to take him up on his offer of the use of the bathing facilities. She may not smell as fresh as most women, but that was perfect for the role she had assumed.

Cleaning took the better part of an hour and it was just one small room. There was no use attempting to clean the bedding; too many former inhabitants had made it a disease-waiting-to-happen. She threw it out the door and watched it wilt down the wooden steps to the back courtyard below. Should the magistrate or his wife happen to visit the area later, certainly the message would hit home. Let them take charge of the pariah. She may not have the right to discard the bedding but she would not keep it in the room with her.

Once the first layer of grime had been abolished, she opened the rucksack on the wooden planks of the bed and removed a small bottle of oil and some powder. Dropping a pinch of the powder in one palm, she added a couple of drops of the oil and stirred them together with a fingertip. As the two became one, she rubbed them vigorously together between her palms. The oily residue was then rubbed lightly on the bed planks and the floor around the base of the walls. She repeated the process on the doorframe and around the door.

She then reached under her blouse and wiped her hands off on her belly, breasts, and arm pits. Then she turned back to the rucksack. Now that the vermin are tended to… She rummaged around a moment with a hand until the familiar metal frame was encountered. Time to get to work.

She pulled forth an icon and stood it up on the bed planks. Most acolytes found other methods for their meditations and, though the Master had frowned on her doing so, she entered trance most easily when staring at the face of the Great Master, Theboshta Bonger. Something about the laughter around his eyes soothed her into such a state of blissful contemplation, the trance-state followed quickly.

But before she continued with the process, she rose again and took up the heavy knife from the sword belt. The nails of the door hinges needed a good pounding. Opening the door a crack, she checked rear yard first. Finding it vacant, she proceeded outside onto the small landing. Holding the door ajar, she hit each of the nails a couple of times to secure the door, then continued down the steps to loosen the boards of the second and third steps. Just enough to make a noise, a notification of someone's approach.

Back in the room, she knelt again before the icon and concentrated on the eyes of the Great Master… and slipped silently into the void.

~~~~

CHAPTER TWO

A simple night's rest was all she needed but it had been a dozen years since the solace found in sleep had surrendered to her needs. Nightmares had hounded her every night before Master Kitifer had taken her in and calmed the beasts within her.

It was bad enough that a nine-year-old girl should witness the murder of both her parents – as well the deaths of her brother, childhood friends, most of an entire village worth – but then to be scorned as the very cause of that carnage was more than anyone should bear.

Grandmother had harbored her and protected her in the trying time and then taken her to the mountains for secure refuge, stumbling on the enclave of followers of Master Bonger. When Grandmother passed, Kitifer was there to continue the refuge, through training.

The meditation pose was continued throughout the night. Where sleep had been her nemesis, the trance-state was her savior. Dawn's light brought a flood of energy into the room, glowing like the fires of some ancient engine purring into life.

Her breathing resumed normality, the eyelids fluttered. Muscles of the lower back flexed and the process was repeated upward, until her head was arched backward and both arms raised overhead. She rose and stretched her legs as well. Striking the starting pose, she quickly ran through her morning forms – an exercise group picked specially for her own physical needs – to both loosen the muscles and heighten her awareness.

Feeling fully awake, she dipped into her rucksack for a handful of nuts and berries to break the fast of the night. She chewed the crunchy mouthful while she donned again the uniform of her trade and prepared for the day's agenda.

Female mercenaries were not unknown. In some regions, a bit more scarce than others, but becoming more prevalent as the years rolled on and the numbers of men taken by the wars diminished. These perilous times had driven many of the fairer sex into the harder professions. The ripple effect of this had led in some areas to strange role reversals: men as midwives, maids, cooks, and other trades usually associated with women; in one town she had even seen men as prostitutes for the large number of female warriors in the area.

Strange times, perilous times, were these. As the magistrate had said: there were demons afoot these days and one could not step too lively.

She exited her room, pulling on her thick leather gloves, and then securely closing the door behind her. The abominable mattress had been removed during the night, she noticed with a chuckle. Whether by the landlord or some much needier townsman, she did not know or care. Descending, she was pleased at the squeaking noise produced by the boards she had prepared on the lower steps. Should some intruder come while she was away it would serve no useful purpose but then there was nothing in the room of any interest now. Not even a mattress.

The morning market would be a good place to start getting the feel of the place. One could certainly find the quality of a region by examining the wares but one could get a better feel for the quality of the people through observing the interchanges there, as well as overhearing any gossip. And there was sure to be plenty of that in such a setting.

Keeping the hood over her head, she joined with the flow of villagers into the square a short distance from the magistrate's dwelling. A few stares were directed her way but the sight of a mercenary was not so unusual these days; a sad statement on the conditions at present. A century before, it would have caused a public outcry. Even fifty years ago, it would have been unusual. Today, she noticed several others of her trade in attendance at the market.

Still others, by their livery announcing their affiliation with some local lord or civic authority, kept a keen eye on each of the mercs, warily anticipating – or perhaps hoping for – a misstep to be made.

Falling in with the surging crowd, she wandered through the stalls, examining the various foods and wares presented and listened to the urgent applications by the vendors to unload their precious treasures for a mere pittance.

No, my fine sir, this is far superior to the steel produced in Langolier. The secrets of its manufacture were learned by my father from the craftsmen of Binabek many years ago.

And further along she heard:

Madam, this fabric is the finest from the east. Intended for the Princess of Wergamoon on the blessed day of her wedding when the lass died of the plague. And, no, the fabric was not infected…

The spiels were the same from town to town, only the derivation of the goods was altered. She smiled to herself and continued her mingling. Most of the produce was local, of course. Anything shipped from regions farther away would have rotted before arriving except for the hardier items like the rare coconut or the herbal roots like berigat, ginger, or yulitas.

And with the war still going on, importation of anything grew less and less with each passing year.

No, sir, I refuse! An argument had started nearby and the singing sound of steel sliding from a scabbard followed. The crowd quieted and tensed simultaneously.

I said 'take it back'!

And I refuse to be intimidated or threatened.

That seemed to be a common refrain, hereabouts.

The local constabulary, those liveried few around the square, were not moving toward the source of the altercation. In fact, those officials nearby were moving away from the trouble. Muldaur chuckled, remembering the Magistrate's avowed association with the group.

She moved toward the booth imperiling the peace but another merc had arrived before her – evidently some acquaintance of the annoyed customer – and whispered something to him. The sword was resheathed in as indelicate and threatening a manner as possible and the pair removed themselves from the square.

Slowly, activity began again and the conversations returned to normal. She lingered around the medicinal stalls for a time – usually the best places for the gossip of most interest to her – but there was neither talk nor herbals that interested her much. So she wandered from the square into a side street where several herbal shops beckoned.

The first few had two or more customers each. Another had only one. Shops further along were busy as well. She wondered if there was an ailment going around requiring the townspeople to prepare or if the locals preached preventive measures.

She returned to the shop with only one customer and waited her turn. Pushing her hood back, she looked around at the jars and bags arranged neatly on the shelves skirting the room. After a time, the customer completed their purchases and the herbalist turned to her.

A confused came over him. Back again?"

She smiled. Sorry. This is my first visit to your shop.

A small shrug dissolved the confusion. Forgive me. You looked familiar to me. Now, how may I be of assistance? The almost universal phrase learned and plied for eons by salespeople rolled pleasantly off his tongue. His blue eyes looked too tired for this early in the day and the gray hair on his head was slightly disheveled.

I was looking around but I don't see any… She glanced around the small shop.

And what exactly are you looking for? He placed his hands together.

She leaned closer and lowered her voice. Do you have any acantherus?

Half turning away, he waved his hand in disgust. I run no sooth den here, young woman. Perhaps you should try another street or better yet, get yourself to Chalismar. I am certain there are several in the Forbidden District that will be to your liking.

She shook her head. If I had been looking for only a down-spring, I certainly would not have come into your shop. Acantherus in powdered form will do me no good.

His interest piqued, one eyebrow raised. Oh, so you are a follower of the medicinal arts as well as a soldier of fortune, no? He chuckled. It is indeed a strange world that marries two professions so wickedly obverse: killing and healing.

Not so strange, she replied, as soldiers are more prone to wounds than most people.

True, he nodded, so very true. He looked around toward the entrance. It is a slow part of the day, he beckoned with his head, shall we see what we can find in the back?

He led through an opening behind a poor tapestry tacked to the wall. The room beyond, small and dark, was substantially cooler than the fore-room.

Delis! He called into a room even further back.

Yes, Father? came the reply.

Mind the store while I prepare some herbals for this soldier.

A towheaded girl of twelve or thirteen, gangly in the onset of her womanhood like all of that age, stepped into the room, paused a moment at the sight of a female warrior, and nodded to her Father. Yes, sir. Right away. She glanced nervously in Muldaur's direction again, then pushed through the hanging.

The man chuckled and pulled a few strands of graying hair away from his head. You would not have thought I could be the father of one so young. He chuckled and shook his head. Poking through a pile in a corner, he muttered as if to himself. There are properties of acantherus that we still do not know about. And yet, disgust tinged his voice, it is mostly shunned, outlawed because of a few miscreants.

Muldaur smirked. A few miscreants like a quarter of the population of Naldar, half that of Ermidasia, and – by all accounts – nearly all of Gostondoc and points eastward.

He pushed a few crates and boxes out of the way, revealing a short cabinet of many drawers set into the wall. After rummaging through several drawers, he turned back to her with a few small pouches in his hands.

As you can see, he gave a little shrug, I have several different concoctions and tinctures of various processes of acantherus. He set them on top of a crate and wiped his brow. As I said, there is still much we do not know about the plant. But, he laid a finger beside his nose, I know far more about it than most. Her eyebrows went up. True! Or the gods strike me where my lying carcass stands! It's true. He raised one thigh up on a crate and assumed a half-seated posture.

Anticipating a lengthy tale, Muldaur lowered her baggage and leaned against another.

"I wasn't there at the beginning – no, but that should have been an adventure worthy of the best histories! – but fairly close to it. You are probably too young to know anything of how this wonder came to us and so I shall tell you, as though from one who was there.

"Half a century ago, an herbalist of a small village in Wentorthren, the village of Vindimor – though I have heard the place was destroyed some years ago – was lucky enough to encounter a traveling merchant from some eastern land. Many of the ingredients he carried was unknown to this herbalist and he bought several out of curiosity to learn their properties even though he doubted any would do him much good as none of the plants were of local derivation, and therefore unlikely to be encountered again.

"Still, he was intrigued. Especially so by one very dark flower. The petals were so deeply violet that they appeared black for all intent. The aroma was intensely sweet that he enquired about its use. The vendor did not seem to know anything as he was just acting as a sales agent for another, trying to create a new market farther afield than their competition.

"So, Lindoral jeRiss, the young herbalist I have been speaking of, bought the odd flowers and took them back to his shop. He tried one of the petals – merely