City of the Dead

By Xina Marie Uhl

Battle-scarred and cynical, Conyr survives as a guard in Eretria's foulest prison for one reason. He watches his back. When he's blackmailed into breaking Dru out of prison, staying safe becomes impossible.

A young priest from an enemy city, Dru has come to Eretria on a mission. But he has a big problem. He can't remember what his mission is. And the ruling elite of both cities intend to discover it by any means necessary.

Together, Conyr and Dru must navigate a maze of power-hungry rivals, desert assassins, and magical attacks if they wish to live.

Deep beneath the city itself long-dead gods kindle to life—and they are angry. For the young priest's lost memory holds more than the key to his past, but also the fates of two cities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XCPublishing.net
• Release date: Dec 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781930805309

Book preview

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UNDER THE SEARING GAZE of the sun god Rumda

did I march my army

my army of ten thousand

Before me fled the people of the land

The harvest lay withered on the threshing floor

Dust piled high in the homes

Homes where only jackals and foxes now live

Even these fled before me

before my army's might

I crossed the harsh wasteland

to the edge of the world

to Eretria by the sea

That nest of vipers

Home to the Dwellers—the Old Ones

Defilers of the land

With the might of my sword

I slew the young men

With the point of my javelin

I made rivers of blood flow to the thirsty soil

O Eretria

Your walls are crumbled

Your temples are burning

Your city is no more

I am Kar the Mighty

Conqueror of Nations

king of Eretria

King of the World

'The Founding of Eretria'

Stele inscription

Year 1, Eretrian Calendar

Chapter 1

Year 309, Eretrian Calender

It was an evil day.

Outside Eretria's walls, the farmers living on the sun baked plains kept their livestock carefully separated; breeding on this day would only result in stillbirths or deformities. Inside the walls, priests lit incense and sent prayers of protection to the gods along with the sweet smelling smoke. The astrologers, adamant about the heavenly portents, recommended that the faithful remain in their homes not only at night, but during the daytime as well.

Conyr Elarrin had no sooner started his rounds, that afternoon, when he found himself wishing he'd done just that. Falas, the head guard, ordered him to stand watch in the Pit, the lowest level of the prison. Conyr normally patrolled the first and second levels, which housed a slightly better lot: prisoners who had committed crimes against the city state or whose means had purchased them less crowded conditions. There was only one reason he would be ordered to the Pit. Someone had been brought in for torture. His stomach tightened in dread. Kar, not today, he prayed silently. But Kar wasn't listening or—more likely—didn't care.

He descended the stairs to the Pit, a large room dug from the hard desert earth and lined with iron bars to create two areas: one huge square cell where the masses mingled and a smaller square in the center for the guards and those unfortunate enough to be tortured. Falas was there, a look of feverish excitement on his round, sweating face.

Shortly, two of Conyr's fellow guards arrived dragging a young man with a bloodied face and torn tunic. They looped a long, rough rope around his wrists, then tossed the end through a hook on the ceiling and pulled it until the young man's sandals dangled just above the stone floor. Blood dripped from his chafed wrists. The young man looked down at the red spots, then up, again. He had dark hair that curled slightly from the dampness of sweat and a face that, though understandably pale, appealed to the eyes because of its symmetry and openness. His expression riveted Conyr: It spoke of pride, strength, determination, and complete knowledge of what was impending. Conyr could tell the young man knew he would not make it. Somehow, in some way he could not explain, the young man's courage touched him in a place deep inside that he thought had been seared closed by the prison's ever present misery.

Prisoners with matted beards and filth encrusted robes surged against the bars in excitement. Conyr jabbed them back with his cudgel. Voices rose as the more eager onlookers wagered on the young man's strength. They sickened Conyr, all the more so because some of them had been victims of the same type of treatment, though they had the dubious honor of surviving.

A burst of hot air from the surrounding desert struck the outside of the building, sifting dust through the tiny ventilation windows near the ceiling. The accompanying puff of breeze stirred the odors—the sweat and feces and unwashed bodies—into a nauseating mixture that permeated the very walls and gave the place an old feel. It wasn't, though. The prison had been built barely twenty five years ago, when the old council decided that Eretrian citizens convicted of offenses such as stealing, raping and defaulting on debts should no longer be enslaved, just imprisoned for a set term. Enslavement was reserved for foreigners.

Falas pulled out his cudgel and slapped it against his bare palm. A cry of approval went up. So, that was how they would do it this time—beat the prisoner to death. Conyr's eyes snapped back to the young man's face, saw him close his eyes and move his lips in some silent supplication.

It hit Conyr, then, with strange and clear resonance, like the voice of a god. This man was innocent of whatever he had been charged with. He couldn't explain his certainty, except that some errant intuition urged him to accept it. The realization unnerved him. Conyr turned his back on the spectacle, his gaze roaming the crowd for troublemakers. The prisoners shouldn't have been allowed to witness such an event, but Falas liked an audience. His perversions had been accepted—even embraced—by the other guards, but he had never pressured Conyr to join him like he did the others. Conyr was different. Perhaps it was his height or frequent scowls or the battle scars which crisscrossed into haphazard patterns on his knee and arm, reminders of his years in the Cyran campaign. The others envied him for participating in that war. Fools. If they only knew what it had done to him, the dreams he suffered, the memories which would not leave his mind.

Falas laughed once, wildly, and swung his cudgel with so much force that the crunching of bone could be heard over his grunt of effort. The young man gave a strangled cry. Conyr turned back to watch the beating.

The prisoner's tunic, torn diagonally across his chest, showed his injuries clearly. Already his torso dripped with sweat. He panted in terror. Conyr's stomach lurched, and he cursed at himself. The first few times he'd witnessed this kind of thing he had been repulsed, so much so that he could hardly hold down his dinner, but soon he learned to pretend that the victims were not human, and disgust no longer overwhelmed him. But not this time.

As though Falas's first blow had freed them from their tethers, the two other guards descended on the young man like starving jackals, adding their cruel blows. Kar in heaven . . . Conyr could not watch as the young man's body bucked with the blows, dripping blood. Conyr focused his gaze on a point past the execution—no, the murder. That was when Gilas caught his eye.

Conyr should have looked away immediately, but something in Gilas's cold, dark eyes held his attention. Gilas was a rogue ex councilman who had somehow managed to offend Zelos Denay, a distinguished member of the Council of One Hundred, and thus ended up a prisoner on the second level. He should have been in his cell now. Conyr didn't know how he got out, he only knew it wasn't the first time. Gilas was the most powerful man in this filthy place, more powerful than the guards or the other prisoners, even the Captain himself, but he exerted his power in such quiet and shrewd ways that few were aware of his interference. Conyr was one of these.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Gilas stretched his hand out, palm up, reminding Conyr of his promise. Conyr cursed, unbelieving, shaking his head. Gilas's eyes narrowed and he inclined his head toward the prisoner, mouthing the word, Now!

Conyr hesitated, fearing what would happen if he did what Gilas wanted as much as what would happen if he didn't. He cursed again. A sudden inspiration struck him. He went to the door and peered out it to the darkened stairway. He stood there for a moment, sweating and fishing around in the pocket of his tunic, before drawing out the Captain's token, a small piece of parchment with the wax imprint of a winged lion. A week ago, the Captain had sent it to him as a pass into the Administrative Complex when Conyr had been called to explain the murder of two inmates by a third. He had meant to turn it in for days now, but kept forgetting; now, he blessed his faulty memory. With the token in hand, he closed the door and pivoted, shouting: Stop! The ferocity in his voice surprised him. The guards stared at him, their cudgels raised in mid swing.

He strode forward and nodded Falas aside. Gesturing at the door, he said in a low voice, The Captain's messenger was just here. He sent this and a command: Ranem's hounds shall be fed, tonight. Ranem, the kennel master, trained his dogs to devour human flesh; living flesh, whenever possible. Ranem claimed he produced the most vicious guard dogs in the four corners of the earth. Conyr believed him.

Falas cursed and wiped a runnel of perspiration from his forehead. He breathed hard with a kind of frantic madness. Why didn't the messenger speak with me directly?

Conyr shrugged, trying to keep his sudden cold fear from showing. He glanced at the prisoner. Perhaps he had other errands, or perhaps he saw that you were . . . occupied.

Falas frowned, considering. Conyr felt Gilas's gaze on them; it seemed to burn the back of his neck like a cinder. He remembered, then, the whisperings of other prisoners who had named Gilas a master of dark sorceries. At length, Falas nodded. The prisoners groaned and one of the guards threw up his hands in disgust. All right, Falas said. Choose a prisoner to carry him.

Conyr scanned the crowd with seeming randomness and pointed at Gilas. Gilas came forward, a slight, balding man with small, shrewd eyes and a meticulous demeanor. The other prisoners drew back from him as though they were afraid, and one of Falas's two henchmen let him into the guard's area. Falas directed the other guard to release the prisoner, who slumped in a crumpled heap on the blood spattered floor. Conyr opened the iron door to the stairway as Gilas pulled the injured man's arm around his shoulders. He and Conyr locked eyes for a scant moment and then they were moving out the door and up the dimly lit stairway. The curses of the prisoners followed them. They topped the stairs and flung open the door to the street, Conyr's heart hammering all the while.

A blast of heat and light hit them. Conyr squinted and blinked back tears as his eyes adjusted to the full glare of the summer sun reflecting off the white plastered buildings. They stepped onto the street, one of the six paved streets in Eretria which radiated from the great brick ziggurat at the center of the city. The priests claimed that Kar, patron god and former king of Eretria, lived at the apex; they often struck gongs or blew trumpets to call him for audience.

The bad omens and midday heat had cleared the streets except for a procession of priests of Raka, god of war and thunderbolts, who wore their faces painted black and their front teeth filed to points. They moved along in a wheeling, half crouching dance, intermittently banging metal rods together and shouting curses designed to dispel evil spirits. Though Conyr had lived in Eretria for almost thirteen years, such spectacles were still strange to him. He had been raised in the wooded hills of Iblia in the Northern Sea, where his pale skinned people worshiped the fleeting spirits of fen and glade and highland mountains. Evil spirits were only spoken of in hushed murmurs, not berated in public.

Conyr gestured at Gilas and they went around the side of the prison to a narrow alley whose only occupant was a small, struggling palm tree. Gilas let the young man slide gently to the ground, where he lay like so much discarded garbage. One eye was cut and swollen almost shut; the other, closed also, was untouched, eyelashes dark against the bloodless face. Conyr knelt, groped at his neck and felt a faint pulse. He looked at Gilas, hunkered down against the opposite wall.

Why? he asked.

Gilas's dark eyes glittered. That will become apparent later. Is he alive?

Barely.

Gilas drew himself upright. Good. You shall see to his recovery yourself.

Conyr stood, struck momentarily speechless. The audacity! When he found his voice again he spoke in a low, warning tone. I've paid my debt to you.

Gilas smirked. With one minor act of courage? I think not. I was more generous with you, as you well know. I expect payment in kind.

Conyr swallowed, then immediately regretted this action. He didn't want Gilas to see any indication that he had the better of him. Though he didn't know why he bothered—Gilas obviously knew. Curse Gilas's generosity, if indeed that's what it was.

Last summer he had given Gilas a promise in a move he was now sure he would regret for a long time.

It had been one of those days that could only happen in Eretria: heat so thick, oppressive and relentless that it made his feet drag and sweat drip in trickling rivers down his back and under his arms. The air seemed to hang in suffocating clouds. His head pounded from a hangover and a cursed summer cold, which was the reason for the hangover in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. He went about his rounds in the usual manner, checking the heavy iron doors of the cells, some of which harbored upwards of ten men. He was always watchful as he performed his duties, since every now and again the prisoners tried something.

But on that day, with his mind fuddled by the effects of drink and sickness, he wasn't careful enough. When he paused in front of a cell to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow someone seized his arm and yanked him into the hard iron bars. Before Conyr could yell, one of the prisoners flicked a leather belt around his neck and twisted it tight, lodging his face against the bars and squeezing off the air in his windpipe. For a moment, he was too stunned to react. Then he recognized the prisoner who was tightening the leather belt with malevolent enthusiasm as a notorious madman. The prisoner hadn't been executed only because his father was a high priest in the order of Kar. A flood of anger and indignation aided his struggle, but the belt only got tighter despite his efforts.

Prisoners surged forward, their dirty faces alight with glee at his plight. Their cheers cut off shortly when a man in the adjoining cell stepped up to the bars. With a start, Conyr recognized him also. Gilas.

Well, my clumsy lord jailer—Conyr, is it not?—you seem to be in a bind.

A chorus of laughter erupted at Gilas's pun. Conyr was in too much pain to be very impressed. The anger gave way as his vision swam. He tried to talk, to reason with or threaten the man, but all that would come out was a hoarse: Stop—

Gilas gave a bored sigh. There are so few diversions here. The unfortunates must make their own entertainment. Is this not so, Rellan?

The prisoner holding the belt grunted.

They've made bets on you. One group is certain you will die with your tongue protruding from your lips and eyes bulging in an appropriately terrified expression; another is convinced that blood will gush from your mouth and nose and with luck, even your eyes. I've seen so many strangulations that, if I gambled, I would go with the first group. He paused, considering Conyr with a slight smile. I might convince Rellan to be generous with your life, if I had good reason. Will you provide me with that reason, Conyr?

Conyr tried to make the motion, but his head was wedged tight. He strained his muscles, trying for what seemed like an interminable moment to nod his assent.

Enough talking, Rellan announced, and yanked the belt tighter. Conyr felt a red tinged blackness closing over his eyes. He pulled at the belt, but the angle was all wrong. The blackness came closer, and a sickening panic pulled his insides apart. Conyr dimly heard Gilas speaking sharp words before at last—

Air!

The pressure was suddenly gone and the cruel leather belt was removed. Conyr sucked in great, sobbing breaths of air. It burned like fire going down his bruised throat, but he'd never known a sweeter feeling. He dropped to his knees, sweating and trembling and filling his lungs again and again with breath after precious breath. Then, slowly, the raw pain in his throat and the panic in his heart subsided and he became conscious of Gilas watching him.

I could have let him kill you, Conyr. But I didn't. One day I will ask you to do something for me and you will do it. All sarcasm had fled Gilas's quiet voice.

Gilas's small dark eyes were pits; Conyr's vision hazed again—a delayed result of the near strangling?—and he found himself nodding. In that one action he committed himself irrevocably. He would not go back on his word. Somehow Gilas knew that.

It didn't occur to Conyr until later, as he reviewed the events in safety, that Gilas could have set him up. But by then it was too late.

Gilas spoke, bringing Conyr back to the present. If my information is correct, your quarters are located in the building I'm leaning against. How convenient for you to abide next door to your place of employment. You are on the third floor, I believe. We will take him there for privacy's sake.

How do you know where I live? Conyr blurted out.

Gilas shrugged. I know more than you think.

Conyr hooked his hands under the young man's arms and hauled him up as Gilas grabbed his ankles. Fueled by frustrated irritation, Conyr moved ahead quickly, rounding the corner and barging into the street for a few steps before entering the long mud brick apartment building. And what do I say if I get caught?

Just make sure you don't get caught. I guarantee that such an occasion would make you very sorry.

In his braver, more smug moments, Conyr didn't think he could feel fear any longer, not after all the things he had seen—and done—in the war and after, in the prison. But something in Gilas's cold, cruel tone made his stomach clench and his heart lurch oddly.

And if someone questions Ranem about him?

No one will, Gilas stated, maddeningly succinct.

It was not difficult to complete this act of deceit, as they met no one on the stairs or in the hallway. Conyr was a tall man, well proportioned and strong, but by the time they had lugged the injured man up the uneven stairs to Conyr's room, both he and Gilas were panting from exertion. Conyr shouldered his way through the front door of his small room, stepping over clothes and cooking utensils and the multitude of miscellaneous garbage he had been too lazy to pick up before starting his shift. Gilas's eyes flicked over the mess, but he refrained from commenting it. Instead, he focused his attention on the young man, whom they laid on the rumpled couch. He probed the young man's wounds and flipped an eyelid back in an expert manner.

Feed him nothing for three days, then start him on something easy on the stomach. Don't pour water down his throat while he sleeps—that could give him the lung sickness. Watch for fever and alert me if he develops complications.

How much more complicated can he get? He's half dead.

Gilas stared humorlessly into Conyr's face. I'm trusting you with valuable property, Conyr. You would be wise to live up to my trust.

Conyr decided to change the subject. I don't imagine your concern for him comes from compassion. Who is he?

His name is Dru.

That's not what I meant.

That's all you need. For now.

Conyr stared at him in angry frustration, but Gilas ignored his reaction and stood up. I really should get back to my cell now, don't you agree? We can't have the guards getting suspicious. It will take time to clean and bandage his wounds; you can come back directly and do that.

Just hold on a moment—I don't know the ways of healing. If you really want him to recover, you should get him to an herb witch. He'll surely die here.

Gilas looked down at Dru's bruised face, his own calculating and calm. After a moment, he said, It's too risky. I want no one but you to know that Dru is here.

Conyr gaped at him, speechless.

Don't ask me how you're supposed to care for him. Just find a way and do it.

Conyr's amazement fled under a flood of anger. He didn't trust himself enough to open his mouth. Instead, he merely grabbed Gilas's arm none too gently and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him.

Neither of them spoke a word during the walk to Gilas's part of the prison. Arriving at the iron doors marking the entrance to Gilas's private cell, Conyr jammed his key in the lock and pushed Gilas inside.

Watch your roommate well, Conyr, Gilas called. Conyr strode off down the hallway. By the time he got back to his room his rage had subsided into a violent fit of trembling.

Inside, Conyr muttered to himself while looking for wraps and fetching a jug of wine for his own consumption as well as for cleansing the unfortunate's wounds. When he sat at the edge of the couch he was startled to see Dru's brown eyes open and lucid.

I heard you talking to the other man. I wish you to know that you also have my trust. He took Conyr's hand, gripping feebly in a spell of desperation. It didn't seem likely he knew what he was saying, for the next moment he slid into unconsciousness. Still, his openness struck Conyr. He shook Dru's hand loose and regarded the young man, vaguely disturbed. He didn't like having someone so dependent on him. He didn't like not having a choice in the matter either.

Conyr sponged the congealed blood from Dru's cuts, then cleansed them with wine, which made Dru thrash and moan in pain. He decided against wrapping them, since he had already tarried enough. Besides which he would have to move Dru to wrap him and he had a curious reluctance to inflict more discomfort on the young man.

Conyr locked his door and returned to his shift, as Falas would undoubtedly send someone to check on him before long. For a moment he wondered if Dru would be alive when he returned, then put the thought from his mind. It wasn't something he cared to worry about.

VAL, SHORT FOR VALEKA—A name she despised and refused to answer to—was bored. She lay on her back on the pile of lumpy blankets her mother called a couch and stared at the ceiling. A huge roach crawled across it, feelers extended, shell shining a dull brown. Val pulled out her knife and weighed it in her hand, trying to decide if she should impale the roach. But what if she missed and the filthy thing fell on her, or worse, what if the knife ricocheted and poked through her eyeball? Jesra, Val's mother, was always warning her about things like that.

She replaced her knife in the sheath around her waist, sighed and sat up, looking around the room for something to do. There wasn't much to see, just a shuttered window that did little to keep out the noise of the bustling street, a shelf with a few neatly arranged pots and jugs, a chest that housed their scant supply of clothing, and a dented bronze mirror that she had found while exploring the midden one day. The discovery had sent Jesra into another of her angry tirades in the name of concern. Didn't Val know that the streets were dangerous places? Didn't she love Jesra enough to obey this one simple rule?

Of course I love you, Jesra, Val had said, flashing a sweet smile calculated to melt her mother's anger. It worked, and Jesra had said no more; neither had she made Val get rid of the mirror, which they both knew was a luxury.

Val held up the mirror and surveyed her round, mischievous face. She was fourteen, but told everyone she was twelve because that kept the men from ogling her too much. Not that she wanted to grow up, since that would involve finding a job like that of her mother's, who was a server in a wine shop. She didn't think that Val knew, but sometimes she served more than food to men who looked like they would pay her well for her efforts. This money she stashed away, hoping one day to have enough to take her and her daughter to some city in the East where she had been born and still had family.

Val could hardly imagine a place like Jesra described—clean and open and so rich that neither of them would have trouble finding decent work and maybe some day, decent husbands. Although Val never admitted it to her mother, that Eastern city was just as important to her. But, even at fourteen, Val knew that the pittance Jesra had managed to save was far from enough, and then there were the all too frequent emergencies that required dipping into that money—the sicknesses, the slow times at the wine shop, the need for a new pair of sandals or a tunic or some other necessary item. It could all be quite depressing, especially if one had nothing better to do than sit in a musty, empty, boring room staring at herself in a mirror.

She sighed and picked up her mother's precious bone comb and ran it through her curly hair. Jesra said it was just like her father's, beautiful and wild and dark. It seemed that by looking at Val she could in some small way bring her husband back from the dead, a shadowy place he had entered before Val was even five years old.

Val put the comb back in its place, and turned around to contemplate the door. She was now more bored than ever and what lay behind that door—a wide, stinking world full of disease and death nonetheless seemed more exciting than this spare little room. With sudden resolve, she pushed away from the chest she had been leaning against and walked through the door. Jesra had threatened her with a beating if she left the apartment today, but the terrors of an evil day paled in comparison to the torment she was already suffering.

The hallway of the crowded tenement stunk, filled as it was with garbage. Val jumped over the festering piles, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Although she had many vices, slovenliness was not one of them. She emerged into the dusty street to find it mostly empty. Across the street, a small knot of men, distinctive in their dull white turbans and baggy trousers, argued in a foreign tongue, gesturing wildly. She watched them, wondering at their dispute, when a flash of motion caught her eye. A cart brimming with vegetables barreled