Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3)

By Zackery Arbela

To uncover the secrets of his past, Azaran must fall into the hands of his enemies!

Azaran travels to the great city of Kedaj, where the answers to his past await...along with a trap set by his enemies. But to learn the truth of his origins, he will walk into it willingly, for no one has defeated him yet.

But Kedaj will test his strength and will to their limits, for it is a city like no other, ancient and wicked. And though his body is strong, his mind falls under the thrall of a seductive enchantress, intent on using him for her own intrigues. Azaran must fight for his memories...and his sanity. And in the fires of the dying city, he will learn who he is...and the price those answers have cost.

Fires of Mastery is the third book of The Tale of Azaran fantasy series. If you like sword and sorcery action and adventure in the vein of Conan the Barbarian, set in a fantastical universe of magic, mayhem and heroism, then you will love Zackery Arbela's latest series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zackery Arbela
• Release date: Mar 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463597637

Zackery Arbela

The physical body of Zackery Arbela lives somewhere in the wilds of Florida. The mind of Zackery Arbela can be found wandering the various planes and adornments of the temporal spheres, from whence he sometimes returns with new and fantasickal tales to tell.

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Fires of Mastery

Book Three of the Tale of Azaran

By Zackery Arbela

Copyright ©2016 Zackery Arbela

Visit me at Zackerium.com

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THE NINE SUNS

Gaebrel's Gamble

Storm Over Olysi

The Burning Mountain

Revenge of the Winter Queen

People of Judgment

The Young King

THE LEGEND OF FENN AQUILA

The Thief Of Galadorn

Red Shadows

THE TALE OF AZARAN

Warrior on the Sea of Memory

Shadow of the Ghost Bear

Fires of Mastery

The Infinity Key

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

Night time in the city. The streets were dark, the occasional torch placed at intersections providing small islands of light in the gloom. All honest folk were in their beds, while those with cause to be dishonest were about their business, lurking in alleyways and alcoves, waiting for their next mark. A dull heat clung to the place, shimmering in the narrow passageways, on the walls of buildings covered in crumbling whitewash, their flat roofs staring up at the Mansion above, the harbor to the west and the walls encircling the place. Ships bobbed at anchor, lit bright by lamps, their crews keeping a watchful eye out for any signs of trouble.

A dark place, this city and not merely because of the night. Tall temples loomed above the rooftops, their bronze doors firmly closed, tall images to the gods looking down on the mortals with expressions of disapproval, for which they had ample cause. Many of them had their faced turned towards a low hill half a mile beyond the harbor front, on which sat a great step-pyramid, three hundred feet high, flanked to the north and south by smaller pyramids half as high. Green gardens filled the space in between and a thick wall surrounded the entire complex, protecting the contents as much from the city beyond as anything else. The sides of the pyramid were decorated on each level with tall bas-reliefs of men and gods, of demons with the heads of crows and the feet of crabs and protective spirits with the bodies of dogs and the heads of smiling women. In the daytime such images were painted bright colors, so that even those on the far side of the city might see them and know that the King was protected by powers both many in number and awesome in strength, that their protection extended to the city he ruled. But in the dark night the color seemed leached out, gods and demons alike fading before the depravity of man.

Soldiers stood guards on the walls, spears in hand. More patrolled in the gardens beyond. A full company was on duty at the main entrance of the largest pyramid. Inside the night was replaced with another darkness. Narrow corridors, lit by oil lamps, the air thick with incense that was ever burning. A visitor who made it past the guards and their questions would find himself headed down a wide corridor that ended in an even larger chamber nearly one hundred yards across at its widest. Six lines of thick stone pillars marched across the floor, made from some rare stone imported from the Far South, black as night, save for twisting silver spider lines crawling across their surface. Hard as iron and strong enough to hold up the weight of all the levels above. The chamber was large enough to hold every noble lord of the city, every great merchant and any of the middling ones the King might desire to invite, the high priests of all the city's gods with their escorts and entourages, the royal wives, children, all functionaries and officials of note, foreign ambassadors, plus two companies of soldiers should they be needed. At the eastern end of the room was a great throne carved from a single block of ruby crystal, polished smooth as glass, the arms sharped like snarling lions, the back that of a rearing eagle. But now it and the room was empty save for a pair of drudges hard at work with mops and a sopping bucket.

Three doors led away from this place. The one to the left led to a wide staircase that zigzagged upwards through the nine levels of the pyramid, going past, in turn, the royal apartments, the apartments of the First Queen, the Royal Heir and the chief ministers and officials, store rooms, a private temple, the main garrison, various other chambers serving diverse functions, until finally the exhausted visitor would appear at the top, looking down on the city below with the view of a god, while an iron statue of a smiling bearded man rose up behind as a guardian of sorts.

The door to the right led to a pair of stairways, both headed down to wide passages cut out of the bedrock, ten feel tall and wide enough for a pair of ox carts to rumble through side by side, should any find their way down. One went north for a hundred feet, ending at a ramp that led upwards to the northernmost of the smaller pyramids, the House of Women, where the royal harem dwelt, along with their servants, eunuchs and those of the King's offspring too young or female to merit a place in the main palace. The other passage went to the southern pyramid, the House of Work, where the servants slept, the kitchens were located and those lesser officials who did not work in the main building kept their offices. Given how dangerous the streets were these days, most of them elected to sleep there as well.

The last passage went east, a small door behind the throne. A private staircase led up to the royal apartments off to the side. The passage itself terminated at a locked iron door that led to a narrow staircase headed downwards into a warren of lightless cells, stinking passages, pain and despair. No light was down here aside from those torches and lamps the wardens chose to light and given the price of lamp oil these days they were far too few. Many who were chained down here had long forgotten what sunlight was like, the touch of the breeze on their face, the sound of a voice that wasn't filled with sorrow or curses.

Yet on this night there was one chamber lit up almost bright as day. Two guards stood outside the thick iron-bound door, bright light glowing beneath. Inside a dozen lamps stood in sconces, their wicks burning bright. Standing against the wall were three men. Two were warders of the dungeons, men with years of service who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut. The third was a man somewhere in his sixth decade, his hair remaining only wisps of its original dark color, his beard trimmed short. He wore a plain blue robe and shoes of the same color. Around his neck was a silver chain, from which hung a pendant in the shape of a down-pointed dagger stabbed through a scroll, the symbol of his office.

Lying on the floor were eleven men and women, lined up in three rows on their backs. Their eyes were half closed, their heads turned slightly to the side to let the drool drain from their slack mouths. Only the slight rise and fall of their chest gave any hint of light. Some wore the remnant of fine clothes, others garments that had been rags to begin with. All were filthy now, their hair long and unkempt, their bodies stinking and unwashed. Some were natives of this land, olive skinned and dark-eyed, with curly black hair. Others came from places to the north, to the south or east. All brought here at great expense.

Walking between the rows was a man unlike any other in the room. His skin was pale, his head bald. He wore only a kilt belted around his waist, his slender torso branded with lines of runes that held a faint glow. Hanging off one shoulder was a leather satchel.

There were supposed to be twelve, said Nerazag. He looked up at the older man. One is missing.

He died. Ithkaan, Vizier to the King of Kedaj, met Nerazag's glare calmly. Some sickness he had before being taken.

Where is the body?

Burned. Last thing we need is some new pestilence within these walls. Ithkaan crossed his arms. Be glad we found this lot at all. Word is beginning to spread. Those with knowledge of the Arcane make themselves scarce when the ships of Kedaj appear off their coasts. That one there, he pointed at a particularly grubby man lying near the end, cost us a small fortune in gold to procure, along the lives of three sailors.

What of the Arcanists within your city? Nerazag bent down by one of the prisoners, pulling back and eye lid and frowning at what he saw. Surely there are a few you won't mind missing. Certainly they'll be more suited than this wretch...

We have few enough of them left in Kedaj, came Ithkaan's reply. And all have the friendship of powerful men within the city. There is enough ill feeling as it is in the streets without us locking up the astrologers and fortune tellers. And Kedaj itself is exempt from your levy, that was the arrangement!

Fine, yes, as you say. I merely asked.

I wonder. Ithkaan glared at him.

Nerazag went from body to body, checking under eye lids, looking in their mouths, taking pulses and feeling the state of their arms and limbs. A few caused him to frown, but no further complaint passed his lips. He examined the last one, then stood up and bent back for a moment, wincing as various pops and groans sounded.

So? asked Ithkaan. It was late and he wished to find his bed and take what hours of sleep were left.

They are a scrofulous, lice-ridden lot, but I suppose they will have to do.

Will you take them now?

Nerazag shook his head. Transport is still being arranged. They will remain here for now. Have someone come in every day to wash them down. They need to be fed - the substance that places them in this sleep will slow their bodies natural rhythms, but they still require sustenance. Warm broth will do...dribble it through their lips with a spoon.

As you wish.

Nerazag went to a corner of the room, where a long object wrapped in black cloth was propped. He picked up in both hands and approached Ithkaan. A gift for your lord, he said, holding it out. From my Master. In appreciation of the alliance and its benefits.

Ithkaan took the bundle. He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a long-bladed sword with a black hilt and sheath. He drew the blade out several inches, seeing a blue-gray metal, its surface marked with dark twisting whorls that seemed to possess their own mineral glitter. Pretty, he said. What is it made of?

No metal you will have heard of, Nerazag replied. The blade is lighter by a third than a steel blade of the same size and weight. The edge is sharper than the keenest razor and will never lose its bite...

It does not have to be honed? said Ithkaan with some surprise.

You can if you wish, said Nerazag, but all you would do is ruin a whetstone...ah, be careful. It will cut through bone like cloth.

Ithkaan had a finger above the edge. He slowly pulled it away. Right, he said, sliding the weapon back into its scabbard. A fine gift for my lord. He wrapped the cloth back around it. Now, as to that other matter we discussed. The guards have been notified and given the description of the man you are looking for. Thus far they have found nothing...

He has not yet arrived, said Nerazag. But he will. And when he does...

He will be placed in the dungeons, as requested, and held until you return. Which will be when?

Hard to say. Nerazag went back to the bodies. There are other matters requiring my attention. I will contact you through the usual channels.

He knelt down by one of the bodies and reached into his satchel, pulling out various bottles and vials and some implements that defied description. After a moment he looked up. I will be here a while longer, my lord and I know you wish to seek your bed.

For a moment Ithkaan looked set to protest, but then he bowed his head. Just so. Will you be here in the morning?

Unlikely. Take these wardens with you, there are certain aspects of my work I would prefer remain private.

As you wish. I will await your return. And with that Ithkaan left, the wardens following after.

Nerazag bent down to his work. kneeling by the body of a rail-thin woman, her face pinched in a permanent grimace. He placed a finger at her throat, eyes closed, able to feel just the barest hint of a pulse.

A sputtering cough from behind caught his attention. He turned about, saw one of the men starting to move. Spittle flew out from dried cracked lips, while the eyes fluttered open. The man struggled to rise, mumbling incoherent words under his breath as he crawled back to wakefulness.

Damn it all. Nerazag scooped up one of the vials and hurried over to the man. He jammed his knee in the man's chest, forcing him back to the ground, then jammed the vial between his teeth and pouring the contents down his throat. The man choked and coughed, spitting up drops of some thick blue potion. Then his eyes rolled back and closed. He slumped against the floor, his pulsing slowing to the point of invisibility.

Nerazag signed with relief. Got the dosage wrong, the idiots! He pinched the bridge of his nose. The nights work had doubled in size. He would have to recheck every body...

The door to the cell opened again. Nerazag looked up as a single cloaked form came in, moving silently on slippered feet. The door closed and a woman's voice asked, Is this a bad time?

No more than any other, came Nerazag's answer.

She pulled back the hood, revealing a oval face surmounted by masses of curling black hair. Limpid brown eyes surveyed the scene with distaste. Is this what all the fuss is about? They have the lower levels sealed up tight.

Then how did you get in? Nerazag asked, looking up at her.

One of the wardens.

Another of your lovers?

He wishes to be. She smiled at that, though there was no humor in her eyes. I cannot stay long. Do you have it? What was promised?

Nerazag reached into his satchel and took out something wrapped in silk, which he handed over. She unwrapped the cloth, revealing a small bead-like object the size of the top joint of her smallest finger. It seemed to be made from red coral and was shaped like an bean. This is it? It's so tiny...

Appearances are deceptive, as you will discover. Nerazag approached her. Now, here me well. You must swallow it. Wash it down with water or wine, but do not eat anything after...

Won't it pass through me? she asked, interrupting him.

No...once in your body it will find its way to where it must be. This will take two days to complete, during which you will feel ill. To outside eyes it will look like a mild fever mingled with stomach troubles, hence the instructions not to eat. The sickness will then subside and a day later you will see the first effects, as discussed.

The woman looked at the bead with renewed hunger. I see...it looks like flames, burning within...

That is as good an explanation as any, I suppose, Nerazag said. Now, a warning. Powers will be given to you, but use them with caution, for all power comes with a price. In this case, it will be paid by your health.

Never fear. She wrapped up the bead in the silk and slipped it under her cloak. I will be careful.

She left without saying another word. Nerazag watched her leave, then shook his head. They always say that, he muttered, turning back to his work.

Isrunin was the name of the village, a collection of perhaps fifty shacks, huts, houses and sheds clustered along a stretch of beach facing south to the Middle Sea. Wooden racks stood on the sand, where the sea wind could get to them, though at present they were empty of the usual lines of drying fish. The fishing boats departed shortly after dawn to take their share of the schools of blackfin, red tunny and shimmerscales that followed the currents towards the shallows along the southern coasts to spawn this time of year.

Yet the village was still alive with activity. Farmers, craftsmen and herders for twenty miles in all directions were clustered around Isrunin on this day, camping in the fields outside its bounds and clustered impatiently by the beach bearing sacks of fresh and dried fruit, bushels of new grain, wool, cloth woven from flax, fresh cut lengths of oak and ash...anything and everything that might be sold at a profit. The focus of their attention was pulled up on the beach. Three Hadaraji trading vessels, each larger than any of the houses in the village, their crews looking down from the decks at the swarms of Eburreans below. Their complexions were ran from olive to dark brown, turned even darker by years spend under the relentless ocean sun. The beards of the sailors were cut short, those of the officers and other worthies considerably longer and all sported various pieces of silver and golden jewelry. Those who chose to visit the locals (and who had knowledge of the language) could, after a few pints of the local brew, be persuaded to tell of their journeys and the strange things seen. Of long voyages across the known world and beyond, places the common folk of this land knew only by rumor and legend. To the ice bound lands of the far north, where men pale as snow wrapped themselves in white bear furs and filed their teeth to points, the better to eat the raw seal blubber that was their preferred meal. To the hot lands of the south, where thick jungles filled with mysterious tribes resounded with signal drums, who traded gold nuggets and raw ivory for salt and weapons of steel. Of the hills of Gusannagar, where every petty lord sitting on a mountaintop styled himself a Prince and made ceaseless war on his rivals, while his wives and daughters strutted about with long curving daggers thrust though their belts, stabbing any man who dared insult their honor. Of the steppes of the Shiraan, where tribes of kuyei nomads were the terror of civilized folk and of the mysterious realms of the East that lay beyond them, which no Eburrean had ever seen, though to hear the Hadaraji sailors tell of it they went there as easily as local wives went to their neighbors for a gossip.

Most of all, they spoke of their home cities of Hadraraj, which to the Eburreans were a byword for mystery and licentiousness. Hadaraj, where great pyramid temples rose above teeming streets filled with uncounted millions. Where a thousand smoky pavilions hid ten thousand untold vices, where the women were hot-blooded and the men passionate. Hadaraj...to the Eburreans a threat and a temptation, that most wondrous of combinations. The sailors were more that happy to feed their hosts imaginations, though the captains had ordered them to avoid any local women interested in finding out the truth of such tales directly - they last thing they wanted was an angry mob out to burn their ships.

Factors and captains dickered with the locals, trading bolts of fine cloth, sacks of spices and jars of sealed wine for the produce of the land, replacing one set of goods with another. They were almost done now, a fact impressed on late arrivals. The holds were nearly full and the captains keeping an eye on the wind, which tended to blow southwards as summer turned to autumn. Yet they could no leave just yet. Even as the factors finished up their transactions, men went riding north on borrowed horses, keeping an eye on the roads. Utar-pashti was due back any day now. If he was late, the captains of the other ships had made clear, then they would leave without him and the Ninth Son of Tereshab would have to brave the voyage to Arqassa alone. And though the power of the Teregi corsairs may have been broken in the past year, there were plenty of other waterborne brigands on the Great Green Sea who would look on a fully laden trader sailing alone as a gift from the gods.

So it was with some relief that two days before the deadline came, Utar-pashti came into Isrunin. Accompanying him were two men. One was an Eburrean, one of their Rhennari priests. The other was a man whose type the Hadaraji did not recognize, a tall fellow whose hair was cropped short, his face freshly shaven. Branded across his torso were runes and symbols strange to their eyes.

Utar-pashti met his crew with some relief, ordered that places be made on the ship for the two strangers. Hammocks were set up in the hold for both men to bed down in, profuse apologies given for the lack of anything better. I fear that my humble vessel is ill-suited for the passage of such illustrious men as yourselves...

Quite all right, said Segovac the Rhennari. Believe me when I say, I've slept in worse.

Wonderful! We leave with the morning tide.

Utar-pashti went on his ship to make preparations. Segovac turned to his companion, who was staring out at the sea. Did you hear him?

The morning. Yes. Azaran looked at that great expanse of water, towards the horizon were each and sea met, the colors melding together so that it was difficult to tell where they separated. He glanced up at the sky, where the blue-and-white face of the Mansion looked down at him, round like the moon but a dozen times larger, its face covered with whorls and striations.

Having second thoughts? Segovac asked.

About what?

You know what. Gwindec would welcome you back. There is much work to be done, a place for you here. He was not happy to see you go.

Eburrea is your land, Azaran replied. His kingdom to rule. My task here is done. Staying here...it's just not an option.

So it's off to Kedaj?

That is where the answers are. His missing memories...pieces to his past. Some had returned, giving a hint to a picture that was dark and he dreaded what else might follow. Yet he needed to know, needed it like a starving man needed food. The truth, no matter how hard or bitter it might be.

It might be a trap, said Segovac. It probably is a trap! He sent you a letter, Azaran, telling you to find him. A man doesn't do that unless he's dug a pit filled with spikes for you to fall in.

And when it opens I'll jump over it. A trap only works until a man knows its there.

Unless that's what he wants you think.

Azaran pinched the bridge of his nose. You don't have to come, Segovac. As I recall, Gwindec was almost as upset to see you leave as I.

Yes. He spoke to me about it. At length. Segovac smiled ruefully at the memory. It got...heated.

And your brothers? Azaran asked. Surely they had something to say about it as well?

There are few Rhennari left among the Eburreans, it is true. Barely a handful, in fact. The two decades of rule under Ganascorec had not been kind to his order. The Ghelenai witches had hunted his brothers down with a particular ferocity. Those who escaped the black knives found refuge in other lands...or in Segovac's case, several years of slavery on Tereg, until Azaran was pulled from the sea and everything changed.

Now the Rhennari were back, but their numbers were small. Apprentices had been taken, but the training was years in length. Losing even one of the survivors were a hard blow to take. They also had words to say about this. Not as harsh as the King, but they made their point. But I explained the matter in full and they had no choice but to go along with it.

Segovac, if this about your oath, then as far as I am concerned you more than held up your end...

That is not for you to decide, Segovac said, an edge entering his voice. On Tereg, I promised to help you find you memories, to find out who you are. By Saerec the one I swore and only Saerec decides when I have met my obligation.

So you leave your people, follow me to what will certainly be a violent welcome across the sea?

There is no promise that it will be violent, though with you violence is more than likely. Segovac shook his head. "Understand this, Azaran. There is a will that moves the Universe, that drives it forward to whatever ultimate end there is. Everyone who lives, man woman and child, beast, fish and fowl, things long dead and things yet to be born, all of it plays