Stronghold

By Kesha Bakunin

No one knows where it came from. Or why, for that matter. Maybe the Stronghold has always been there. Silent. Foreboding. Expectant. Generations came and went. Wars raged. Kingdoms rose and fell. But the Stronghold stood and observed the history as it was written before it in blood, fire, and tears. Not a single soul has ever made it inside the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637528136

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STRONG

HOLD

KESHA BAKUNIN

atmosphere press

© 2021 Kesha Bakunin

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover art by Slava Gerj / Shutterstock

Cover design by Matthew Fielder

Artwork by John L. Hadlock

No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real places, persons, or events is entirely coincidental.

atmospherepress.com

Chronicle I

"Some places don’t belong to thee,

And any person better flee

The tower, sacred and morose,

Before he learns the wrath of Those."

Sunna 1:5

The Book of Alekram

1. A Keeper Unkept

Year 200 of the Ashkaratti Dynasty

Erik Mortensson had always known he wouldn't die peacefully. Anguished anticipation had long since become his second nature. But that day, his torment was going to cease.

The dead need not worry about dying.

Laurene, Moonreader of the Ubutszu people, stood before Erik. As her bony fingers fiddled with his orb, she pondered aloud, I never thought one day I'd be holding an orb in my hands. Or that you, my own cousin, would become a Keeper. The crowd behind her murmured. Agitated yet attentive, they devoured each of the Moonreader's words. Laurene's chalky voice poured into Erik's ears. Her haggard face was illuminated with the reflections of multiple torches, trembling nervously in the hands of her fellow tribesmen. They were scared and awed. What was about to happen was unheard of. It was beyond any taboo or transgression. It would tear apart the very fabric of their society, inviting consequences beyond imagining. But the Moonreader commanded, and they answered her call. This night would make history.

A Keeper was to be immolated.

You are wrong, Laurene. Erik barely recognized his own voice. It was hollow and dry like the voice of a dead man. Wicked things are going to come your way. Think of our people!

The Moonreader's face was motionless, as if all life had escaped through the pores of her skin, leaving no hope or compassion behind. The chanting grew louder and more hysterical.

You are not one of us. Laurene's words were now hard to distinguish, so Erik had to read her lips. You have become a Keeper. You have made your choice.

He should have never disobeyed the behest; he should have used the orb himself while he had the chance; he should have ascended.

It is not a choice; it is destiny. Erik's thoughts were racing. But even in this wretched moment, he couldn't but admit to himself that his obsessed cousin, a high priest of his former people, didn't scare him nearly as much as his masters. The death she was promising frightened him less than his everyday life and the horrible mission he had been sent out on. He fathomed the rules of death, but he had long given up trying to make sense of his life as a Keeper. Erik inhaled, and the scorched air blowing from the bonfire seared his nostrils, throat, and lungs. "Those will not forgive. Or forget."

Laurene shrugged dismissively and raised her orb-clenching hand, making the artifact visible to the people around her. "Now we can haggle with Those, and they will have to listen. For the first time, we'll ink a victorious page in the Book of Alekram. We will not be bea—" A sudden gust of wind smashed a handful of ash into the Moonreader's face, making her stutter, rendering her cry inaudible. She rubbed the smudge off with her tunic's sleeve and glanced at her cousin for the last time. Against her expectations, she couldn't find the tiniest residue of horror in Erik's distorted face. Only pity. Taken aback, the Moonreader unsheathed her ritual blade and pressed it against his neck.

"Those do not haggle" were Erik’s last words.

2. Glad Tidings

Year 200 of the Ashkaratti Dynasty

Lord Untu Va’aldek was very particular about his privacy. In the Sovereign's court, bitter jokes were abundant about what happened to people careless enough to violate the sanctity of his study.

Untu's political success was mostly attributed to the fact that as Chancellor of War and Prosperity he had never waged a war that wouldn't promise a hefty increase in the Sovereign's prosperity. Untu’s standing at the court made him fully eligible for the lavish chambers of the royal palace’s east wing which were reserved for a host of people who ruled the Kingdom of Iskoria. And yet the powerful chancellor chose to stick to the modest accommodation in the west wing that was once used by his father, a person for whom he had never exhibited much sentiment.

The only thing known for certain about Untu's study was that its entrance was covered by a remarkably sturdy metal door bearing the engraving of the Va’aldek family insignia. In elegant argent lines, it depicted three circles, two larger ones close to each other and the smaller one a bit farther off. Every court gathering that Lord Untu left unattended would at a certain point gravitate towards a discussion of his chamber. Most of the tattlers agreed that there was something quite uncanny about it.

Interesting as it was to consider, the question bore little relevance to Marv, the royal jester, who was idling in front of the door, pretending to examine its pattern while mustering the resolve to knock on it. The predicament Marv found himself in was due to the extremely urgent and sensitive nature of the news he had just come to possess. It was well established that Lord Untu could spend days in reclusion, but every lost hour would immensely diminish the impact of the message he had at hand. Time was absolutely of the essence.

Even before the plangent echo of Marv's half-hearted tapping had died away, the door swung open, revealing the robust frame of Lord Untu. Adorned in a snow-white vestment, he towered over Marv while his eyes languidly but carefully appraised his guest from head to toe. The only piece of jewelry the man was wearing was a lacertian-shaped bracelet that twirled around his right wrist. Rumor had it, the thing was alive, and somebody had seen it crawling off its master's hand. Marv didn't believe it for a heartbeat. After all, Lord Untu was only human. However, standing right before him now, Marv wasn't that confident. The silence turned from uncomfortable to ominous. Finally, through an incredible feat of will, Marv forced his lips part.

Lord Chancellor, I would never have dared to disturb you but I'm bringing news of undeniable importance which you of all people will be able to… Marv had to cut his well-rehearsed speech short when he saw that Untu had turned his back on him and was about to close the door.

Chancellor, the Stronghold!

The door froze half shut and Marv decided to take a moment to catch his breath. Not known for excessive patience, Lord Untu concluded that the jester had been given enough of his time and pulled the door again, making Marv choke on his inhale. He hurried to add in a froggish voice, Savages got an orb!

Two heartbeats later, the door opened up. Those were probably the longest heartbeats in Marv's life.

*

The audience with the Sovereign left a rusty aftertaste both in Untu's throat and in his mind. It wasn't a complete disaster but decidedly didn't go the way he hoped. He sent a lackey to request the honor of making himself present before the Sovereign an hour after Marv had scurried out of his study with a purse containing a lifetime's worth of precious stones. The jester heatedly swore that Lord Untu was the first and only person in Iskoria to have learned about the immolation of a Keeper by the Ubutszu tribe and his appropriated orb. According to Marv, the spy who brought the news was taken care of. Still the jester's math didn't add up. Lord Untu was a man of science, and it didn't require a great effort from his rigorous mind to realize that, even with the spy out of the equation, he was at best the second person in possession of this news.

The Sovereign agreed to see Untu in the Chamber of Arts, which indicated that he didn't have a lot of time to get his point across. The Sovereign took art practice quite seriously and didn't appreciate being distracted from the sublime exercise of drawing, sculpting, or versing. Lord Untu cut to the chase and asked for two legions to investigate some disturbing reports about the unrest brewing in the Wasteland. Of the fact that there was going to be unrest after the slaughter of the Keeper, Lord Untu was quite sure.

One, immediately responded the Sovereign without taking any time to mull it over. Not because of any lack of confidence in your loyalty, but because two legions might be sufficient to tempt you into a venture we will all regret.

Lord Untu remained silent, looking intently at the half-finished painting behind the Sovereign to avoid crossing gazes. The vast canvas already contained a fairly decent rendition of a dozen personas; some of them long dead, others never existed. The central place among them was taken by the figure of Untu's late father. To his right, there was an image of a noble-looking man in a uniform of a palace guard which seemed to be a bit too large for his slender build. The man appeared to Untu eerily familiar, but he didn’t have time to ruminate over it, for the Sovereign spoke again.

"You shall not approach the Stronghold and you shall not do anything at all in relation to Those. Whatever your business might be in the Wasteland, it shall not be connected to…" Habitually, the Sovereign didn't bother to finish the phrase once its message had been made clear.

I live to serve, Your Majesty.

You are restless, Untu. Why?

I am just concerned with those reports that have been brought to my attention. Strange things are going on in the Wasteland. Savages are unpredictable and I wouldn't want to engage in any skirmishes. Lord Untu made his final attempt at getting more manpower.

You won't have to, treasured Untu. No one in the Wasteland would dare to challenge an Iskorian legion. You can even have our Vermilions.

It wouldn't be necessary, Sovere—

Positively, it is decided, you'll take some of the Vermilions. The Sovereign didn't even pretend to regard Untu's objections. A double centuria will suffice. We do not want any harm coming your way, dearest Untu, do we? You may withdraw a cupful of gems from the treasury to distribute among the tribes while doing diplomacy. Military might isn't the only thing Iskoria has to offer. Go now and come back with some news.

The Sovereign took a step back to the canvas, demon-strating that the audience was over. But before Lord Untu crossed the threshold, he heard a question asked with that intonation which left it unclear whether it was a real query or just thinking aloud.

Haven't seen Marv all day. Where could he be…

Lord Untu summoned his most delicate voice.

Knowing how fond you are of the old man, I couldn't bring myself to deliver the word, Sovereign. Marv went missing today. My people spent hours looking and combed the entire palace. Nothing so far, but we’ll keep—

Untu interrupted himself, seeing that the Sovereign had already lost interest in the topic and returned to painting.

While one legion was not ideal for Untu's purposes, it wasn't wholly unsatisfactory. After all, Untu would still have his acumen which was far beyond anything the entire Wasteland could ever hope to muster. Wits would always prevail over brute force, especially with a tiny bit of support, such as fifteen-hundred fine Iskorian soldiers.

What truly bothered Untu was falling into the trap so effortlessly set by the Sovereign and ending up with two hundred Vermilions breathing down his neck. Exceptionally well trained and loyal to the Sovereign alone, those warriors would rather die than let him do anything against the Sovereign's order. Or, probably, would rather see him die, depending on the command given by the Sovereign.

One thing about the audience that didn’t perturb Untu in the least was the parting remark from the Sovereign regarding Marv’s disappearance. Perchance, Untu had simply missed the momentary spark that ignited the gaze of the Sovereign at the mention of the jester. The spark that made the eyes of Iskoria's ruler appear as if they were filled with a liquid storm. 

All four of them.

3. Born to Die

Year 146 of the Ashkaratti Dynasty

Celebrations in the Iskorian capital of Morratong began hours before the girls were born. Their father, wary of premature festivities, didn't approve of that but there was little he could do. After all, if the people of Iskoria wished to rejoice on the occasion, how could their monarch deny them?

Heartbeats turned into minutes which, in their turn, piled up into hours. The sun’s languorous touch upon the streets of Morratong weakened. Shadows grew larger, drawing surreal patterns on the pavement while the happy people of Iskoria danced and sang in anticipation. The bloodline of the glorious house of Ashkaratti would continue to bless Iskoria as it had done for the last three comets. The kingdom would remain the beacon of civilization and enlightenment in the Known World.

The only person who couldn't find any peace on that fateful evening was King Zortan himself. By the old tradition, the father wasn’t admitted into the room where his baby was being born. No exception would be made, even for the king. Zortan paced his chambers with hands clenched behind his back, his hair disheveled. He didn't know why, but he wanted to run away from the palace, get lost in the streets of Morratong, mingle with his people, and never be found. A certain foreboding permeated the air in the royal ward making it dense, palpable, too heavy to breathe. The floor clinked obediently under the king's boots.

Clink-clank.

Clink-clank.

Clink-

It will never stop, it will never cease,

Ashkaratti blood shall always exist.

Don't look to the right, don't look to the left,

Look up at the sky, thankful for the gift!

The very same song that was sung when Zortan himself was born, and his father before him. It had probably been around already when his great grandfather was brought under the Moon. The same jolly tune. Only this time it sounded more like an elegy.

Sometime long ago, we all lived in pain,

Knowing little light, struggling through the day.

Then the men of will came to share our grief,

Keeping us from harm, from falling off the cliff.

Lucia´s face forced its way into Zortan's mind, assuming a multitude of expressions. Joy. Agony. Tranquility. Fear. Regret. Anger. The song kept on coming through the half-closed shutters. Its sounds mixed up with the stale air in the room, producing a noxious concoction. Zortan almost fainted. He had to hold on to the desk in order to maintain balance.

We shall serve our king, we shall serve our queen

With the last of breaths that we hold within.

To protect their spawn is a sacred task

That we shall perform without being asked.

It was unbearable. He had to see Lucia, caress her hair, inhale her scent. Tradition or not, it was something he had to do not to go insane. He straightened up and smoothed his hair with his hand. Then the king took a jar of water from the desk and splashed a bit on his face. He cast a fleeting glance at the huge mirror on the wall. To his satisfaction, the man who peered back was still quite handsome and vigorous. Not as broad-shouldered as his father but with the defined chest, thick neck, and sinewy arms. Only the gray color of his shag betrayed the king’s age of forty-one. Other than that, his face looked as if it belonged to a man five years younger. The problem was that Zortan felt neither young nor vigorous. Not that day, at least. He trudged towards the door. Every line of the street song pushed him deeper and deeper into some sort of trance. He had to hurry up before the spell became too powerful to break. Zortan tried to take stride but it was like swimming through molasses. Hold on, Lucia, just hold on, the king kept on asking in his head.

Summer follows spring, flowers blossom up,

Never shall we sin against royal blood.

Our fathers’ pride’s part of our past

'Cause we guard our honor like a fragile glass.

The walk to the queen's ward was taking Zortan much longer than it normally would. Some would attribute his slowness to the oppressive humidity of the summer night. But Zortan knew that he was just afraid of what he was about to face in Lucia's room. Somewhere along the way, he dismissed the guards that had been accompanying him right from the door of the royal chamber. The soldiers half-heartedly tried to object, but it was clear that they were all too happy to finish their duty early and join their families for celebration. The inner court of the palace was almost deserted; only a couple or so bleary silhouettes sauntered about their business. The rest of the inhabitants either went out to the city to partake in the festivities or, if their station required them to stay on the premises, were waiting at their places to be formally summoned for the natal announcement.

Not ready to make the final two dozen steps and enter the queen's wing, the king stopped and looked up at the sky, as the song demanded. The stellar image of some mythical creature stood distinctly out on the dark silky dome. Depending on the mood, Zortan sometimes imagined it to be a one-hump rolak, other times a prairie dog. But that night all he could see was the spectral figure of a horseman who was somehow fused with his mount. When Zortan was a boy, his father, King Romm, told him stories about horses with wings, assisting great heroes in their deeds; Zortan also remembered tales of unicorns, magical horses with horns. As for uncanny creatures with the human torso and the lower body of a horse, Zortan recalled that they were intrepid warriors. He couldn't quite recall their name though. Was it kentauri? It was for the first time in his life that the familiar starry contour in the sky evoked that bellicose image. To Zortan it hardly seemed like a good omen. The king looked at the cross under the creature's belly, a symbol of a long-forgotten cult. He followed the crossbar eastward with his eyes and stared at the bright star marking the right hoof of the creature. What if there was somebody up there, just as desperate and troubled as Zortan, also staring into the darkness of the Entirety? Maybe he was also a king. Or a vagabond. What difference would it make? Could it be that the celestial Zortan was also waiting for his wife to give birth, apprehensive and paralyzed with fear as his human sib? He didn't know. But if it were true, Zortan would have felt a bit less lonesome.

The king shook his head. Everything that had been happening to him that evening was so unfamiliar. He was a rational man and had never paid any respect to premonitions of any kind. Surely, waiting for the firstborn was a new experience, but so was leading his troops into a battle in the Wasteland and a great many other duties which had come attached to the Iskorian crown. The king knew that he had to calm down and just wait a little bit longer. Perhaps, an hour or so. Then the royal healer would request his coming to the queen's chamber to bless the child. That's how it always had been. Of course, there were times when babies couldn't make it, but it was rare. Zortan felt his breath slow down. He could finally enjoy the rich aroma of the night. He let it fill his lungs and rid him of his worries.

A cloaked man accompanied by a couple of royal guards emerged from the darkness a dozen feet away and proceeded hastily in the direction from which Zortan had just come. It took the king just a few heartbeats to identify the royal insignia on the soldiers' armor coruscating in the moonlight. Only his and Lucia's escort could have it. Since he dismissed his own guards a few minutes ago, they must be coming from Lucia's ward.

Healer Neeam?

The group immediately came to a halt and turned around. The cloaked man took off his hood and squinted into the mirk in disbelief. Your Majesty? What are you doing here?

Just couldn't bear the wait any longer and had to occupy myself with something. No matter, tell me, how is Lucia?

Your wife is perfectly alright, Your Majesty. I was on my way to your ward to bring you the news about—

So, what is it? A boy?

The queen has given birth to two girls.

Two girls! What a blessing! Zortan roared ecstatically. He reached out to the healer and embraced him with such vigor that the man choked.

Unfortunately, the babies turned out to be stillborn, mumbled Neeam, struggling to catch his breath. Such things happen, Your Majesty. What's important is that your wife is fine and can still conceive.

The king turned silent for a full dozen heartbeats, attempting to rein in the plethora of thoughts awoken by the news. I need to see her right away.

It may not be the best idea, Your Majesty. The queen should rest. Be assured she's completely safe but could use some sleep. You can see her first thing in the morning. Even before he finished the phrase, Neeam realized how rude it had come out.

In the morning? Nonsense! The suggestion seemed so preposterous to Zortan that he didn't even notice its impropriety.

I'm going to Lucia this very moment. If she's asleep, all the better, I shall guard her rest.

Zortan launched towards the entrance to the queen's wing. Neeam and the two soldiers rushed after him but could barely keep up.

The queen herself told me to ask you to postpone the visit until the morning, my king! added Neeam, gasping for air.

She is just concerned that I may not handle the news well. My sweet Lucia! But don't you worry, Neeam. I'll let her know that you've done everything possible to prevent me from coming.

Even though his daughters were born dead, the king was so relieved that his wife was out of harm's way that all the rest seemed trivial. Back at the palace, Zortan easily navigated his way through the labyrinthine web of corridors. He knew the route to his wife's quarters so well that he could make it with his eyes closed.

The king arrived at his wife's room ahead of Neeam and the soldiers. He gently knocked on the door, not to disturb his wife in case she was already asleep. In a few heartbeats the door flew open, and Zortan found himself face to face with Lucia. She stood in the doorway unsteadily with the aid of a small cane. Upon seeing her husband, she gasped.

You… what are you doing here? You cannot, you are not supposed to—

Don't worry, my love. Neeam has already told me everything. It is all fine. I'm by your side.

Neeam told you everything? Lucia drawled every word like a person trying to buy some time to get a grasp of an unexpected situation.

Of course he did! I met Neeam on his way and he told me—

Told His Majesty that the girls were stillborn, croaked the healer who had finally shown up behind Zortan.

Neeam, unnaturally pale, was sweating profusely. He was alone, having lost the guards somewhere along the way. The healer established momentary eye-contact with Lucia and shook his head slightly, a vague gesture that she understood.

So, you know it all, my love. I'm sorry that I couldn't deliver you the healthy baby you deserve. The queen had regained composure and was now talking in her usual soothing voice.

It is nothing. You are safe and that's all that matters! Shall I come in?

Of course. But there's one thing I'd like to ask you for. Lucia took a little pause as if she didn't want to bother her husband with such minutiae. There is a medallion my mother gave me that I left in our bedroom. The golden one with the big ruby. Could you bring it to me? I really want a piece of her to be with me tonight.

Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to send somebody else instead? I’m loath to leave you, even for a heartbeat.

There’s nobody else here, my king. I have dismissed all the maids, and Neeam, as a man, cannot set foot in our bedroom. Lucia exchanged understanding glances with the healer.

But what are you saying? You've dismissed all of them and stayed here all alone while Neeam was gone?

I'm fine, my love. Just couldn't stand a lot of people. All those compassionate looks and encouraging words—

Her explanation was cut by a shriek. For a moment or two, the husband and wife were looking at each other, not knowing what to make of it. Then came the second shriek. Unmistakably, it was a baby. The king delicately moved Lucia out of his way and entered the room. The place had the slight scent of medicine. The thick curtains were closed, and the little light that was there originated from a small lamp on the bedside table. On the floor, there were a couple of water bowls and numerous piles of cloth, some soaked in blood. The far-off corner of the room, by the window, was occupied by a heavyset ebony cradle. Inside the cradle, on a massive purple silk pillow, Zortan saw the bundle which was the source of the shrieks.

But I don't understand, mumbled the king, addressing no one in particular. You said the girls were dead.

Please, let me explain, Your Majesty, intervened Neeam, seeing that Lucia wouldn't be able to produce anything articulate.

You better, healer.

Zortan covered the space between the entrance and the cradle in a few huge strides, so broad and springy that they looked like jumps. After a moment of confusion, Lucia rushed after her husband.

Your Majesty, the girls are not well. I would even say, they are quite unwell. So, after the most deliberate consideration…

The healer didn't get a chance to finish his speech as Zortan, with the queen practically hanging on his shoulders, unraveled the screaming bundle. The moment he did that, a new, way more resonant shriek swept over the room. Nothing in the many years Lucia had spent with her husband ever indicated that he was capable of such sounds. In terror, she unclenched her hands and let go of his shoulders. Sweat covered Neeam's face so thickly that it could have been mistaken for make-up melting down in the rays of the king's fury. Surprisingly, the contents of the bundle seemed quite undisturbed by the commotion it had caused. Not the slightest noise left the wool with the royal embroidery, resting peacefully in the king's trembling hands.

What is this… ragorash? Unable to find the word to describe what he was looking at, Zortan resorted to the Old Language that had been out of popular use for more than two comets.

An abomination? You are looking at your daughters! replied Lucia in a poignant voice.

Neeam nervously looked around as if expecting somebody. Seeing the weird behavior of the healer, Lucia decided to act. She approached her husband and reached out for the bundle which he was holding. The king seemed to have fallen into some kind of stupor. Yet the moment Lucia's hands relieved Zortan of his burden, he came back to life.

Why did you lie to me?

Precisely because of your reaction.

My reaction? You said the girls were dead and now I see this… How do you expect me to react? But it's fine, it's going to be fine. Tomorrow first thing we'll gather the Royal Convention and make sense of it.

It is probably not the best approach, if I may, Your Majesty. To his own surprise, Neeam had managed to preserve some remnants of his usual sangfroid.

No, you may not, healer. We will also discuss your participation in this deceit…

There will be no discussion or hearing on this, said Lucia. I already know what the verdict will be. They will decide that the girls are corrupted by some evil spirit and must be cleansed. We all know what it means, don't we?

Then so be it.

Never.

Are you disobeying me?

The girls won't be slaughtered.

It's not up to you to decide.

Zortan made a quick step forward and wrestled the bundle out of his wife's arms. She immediately fought back, showering him with kicks and punches. One of the punches struck at Zortan's temple which filled him with unrestrainable rage. He grabbed the bundle with one hand and slapped his wife's face with the other. The smack made Lucia move back and step into one of the water bowls which immediately slid from under her, with her foot still inside.

Suddenly, they were enveloped by darkness as the queen fell right on the bedside table, pulling with her the small lamp, the only source of light in the room. A few moments later, Neeam opened the curtains and let in the moonlight. The space acquired a ghostly aspect. Lucia was lying on the floor, motionless. The healer and the king approached the body at the same time and nearly bumped into each other. Neeam checked the queen’s pulse and shook his head. The howl that escaped from Zortan's throat was almost inhuman. Soon it was joined by an equally blood-curling cry, coming from the bundle that the king still had in his hand.

A tall, dark shape materialized in the doorway. The king, sitting on the floor by his wife's body, raised his eyes. The shape stepped into the room, exposing itself to the pallid moon glow.

What are you doing here, Ishmael? asked the king.

The man kneeled over the queen's body and put two fingers on her neck. After a few moments, he shook his head and turned his long, swarthy face to Zortan. He said, I heard a scream, Your Majesty.

Then the man took the bundle from the king and looked inside. A broad smile made his already attractive features even more appealing.

Aren't they wonderful? he said.

Tomorrow, the Royal Convention will establish what they are, answered Zortan in a hollow voice.

There's no need. I know what they are, said Ishmael, unable to take his eyes off the girls. They are twins. Conjoined twins. And that’s perfectly alright.

Neeam, the royal healer, knew nothing about conjoined twins. But what he knew for certain was that his job there wasn’t yet finished.

4. Deliverance

Year 200 of the Ashkaratti Dynasty

It was the same man who saved Zoffra’s life twelve years ago. It seemed since then he hadn’t aged a day. The same vulpine face with plump lips and sharp cheekbones. The same eyes made of quicksand. The same pampered skin, in stark contrast to the rugged expression on his face. He looked only a few years older than Zoffra, who was twenty, but commanded the place as if he were eternal.

Hello, Zoffra. I see you recognize me. The man ran a hand through his thick dark hair. We do not have much time, and I need you to listen very carefully.

Zoffra sat on his bed, throwing the blanket to the floor. Heavy drops of sweat were dancing across his chiseled chest. It was surprisingly bright in his tent for such a cloudy night. Bright and quiet.

I recognize you. You saved me from the gators a long time ago. But I haven’t seen you since. Why are you here?

You have to leave. Before the dawn, this place will drown in tears.

Because of the Keeper?

Yes. Your people transgressed, and there will be a price.

Zoffra moaned, and his fists clenched. The Moonreader… Mad quim… Mother told me that it would end badly. Many didn’t want it but were too scared to stand up to her.

It is of little consequence now, Zoffra. What’s done cannot be undone, only repaid. I know you are innocent, and I’ve come to show you the way out.

But I’m telling you, many are innocent!

There’s only so much I can do and so many I can help.

The man approached the bed, squatted before Zoffra so that their eyes were on the same level, and put his hands on Zoffra’s knees. A sudden bolt of warmth exploded in Zoffra’s legs and spread all over his body. It felt as if all pain that Zoffra had ever carried subsided, giving way to rapture. The silence was absolute. The man turned a bit pale. Then he caught Zoffra’s concerned look and smiled, showing that he was alright.

The interior of Zoffra’s tent bore little personal touch. The shaky bed with a bunch of rags which served both as pillows and sheets was the centerpiece. The makeshift wooden rack to the right carried another bundle of rags Zoffra considered his clothes. The two piles were probably interchangeable and differed mainly in the intensity of stench they produced. Then there was a low table made of a large piece of limestone attached to a dilapidated wooden crate. A dented clay mug on the table completed the dismal ensemble. Only two things in that place seemed to have been taken care of by their owner. One was a thick piece of stale bread, scrupulously wrapped up in yellow, velvety leaves. The other was a book that sat firmly on the table next to the mug. Its leather cover was so clean that it shone. The Covenant, also known as the Book of Alekram.

Take this. The man fished out of a pocket of his grey costume a little something and placed it in Zoffra’s hand. This is a compass. When you put it down, the arrow always points to the north.

The man stood up and stretched his legs. He was built more elegantly than Zoffra: taller, with a more gracile physique. Still, an experienced hunter himself, Zoffra could appreciate the ease and force with which the man moved his body. Zoffra looked down at the device in his hand. The arrow was shaking timidly, trying to divine the right direction. After a few heartbeats, it made up its mind and pointed somewhere behind Zoffra’s back. The young man flipped the compass. Its bottom was engraved with a runic inscription. The Old Language.

Is it Iskorian?

Yes, it is. Quite old but works very well.

What do the runes say? Zoffra brought the compass closer to his eyes as if physical proximity could make the unknown tongue more comprehensible.

It says ‘There’s no greater virtue than curiosity as there’s no greater reward than knowledge.’

How does it work?

I see that you agree with the motto, the man observed dryly but not without sympathy. Earth exerts an invisible force called—

Who?

This body of land upon which we all walk that you call Ta’aiala produces a special aura which can be detected by the hand of the compass because it is made of a material susceptible to that aura. The aura has a certain shape which forces the hand to always turn to the north.

And because the aura is produced by the whole of Ta’aiala, the compass will turn its hand in the same direction wherever it is used?

Correct. I’m afraid we do not have time to talk more about how the compass works because I still need to tell you what to make of it…

I will not leave without my mother and my sister.

You may take Sulcra with you, even though the journey won’t be easy. But your mother won’t make it.

Then I won’t go.

She wants you to go.

Zoffra stood up and made a few steps towards the man until they were close enough that both could hear each other’s breath. Then Zoffra pressed his hand against the man’s chest and looked him in the eye. The man calmly looked back.

Yes, Zoffra, I do have a heart.

Then you are not a spirit. You’re only human, no matter how much you know or can do.

You could say that I guess. But I believe that it’s only how much you know and can do that defines who or what you are. We’re almost out of time, and I suspect you will want to say goodbye to your mother.

Zoffra withdrew his hand and walked out of the tent, the compass clenched in his fist.

*

They were standing next to each other, watching Zoffra’s figure being absorbed by the bleak fog. It had been almost a minute since the smaller silhouette of Sulcra became indistinguishable. The way the brother and sister were leaving their tribe was both solemn and somber. Knowing that they were observed, Zoffra took on a brisk pace. Nobody promised them a bright future. They were just given a chance not to die the day thirty-four hundred of their Ubutszu brethren were going to.

The old woman broke the silence, Will they both make it?

That I do not know.

But do they stand a chance?

Sounds of fighting were growing more and more distinct. Screams of people, clunking of metal, thumping of horses’ hooves; it all blended with the ashy smell of incendiary arrows. Some women were running around, trying to find a safe place for their children. Others were scurrying with baskets full of water, dangling from rockers. The fire had already started its repast, chewing on the village piece by piece, house by house.

The man in grey made a quick gesture, and suddenly all the noises were gone. He turned his delicate face towards the old woman and asked, Why didn’t you leave with your children?

Old. I’m way too old.

They could have helped you. Zoffra is strong and capable. With each day now, he’ll become even more so.

With the journey, maybe. But what about the destination?

And what about it? There was a glimpse of curiosity in the man’s eyes as he looked closer at his interlocutor. The woman’s face was of many stories and little regret. It had the color and texture of terracotta, with lines all over.

I wouldn’t dare to come to where they’re bound. The place will change them. I’ve lived a long life. Fifty-one years and three moons. Too late for me to change, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t want to anyway. I was Marian Ru’ufus when I married my husband. I was her when I gave birth to Zoffra, Sulcra, and the other four babies who didn’t make it. I was the same woman when I buried my husband. I don’t want to change now. What for?

For knowledge.

My son, he always says that it’s important to know the truth even if it hurts, even if it makes you suffer. He’s right of course. But there has been enough pain in my life. What I need now is a bit of hope, not the truth. So, I’m asking you again, do they stand a chance?

At least one of them does.

People were fighting all around them now, but the man and woman were standing in an impenetrable bubble that protected them from the rampage. No sound from the outside could sift through, no arrow could enter. More than that, judging by the reaction of the combatants, or by the lack of such, the two were as invisible as they were invincible.

This power of yours, what cost did you pay for it?

It has always been mine.

That’s not what I’m asking.

Fair enough. The cost is that I can do anything that I don’t care to. But I can do very little of what I’d like.

Then it’s even greater than I thought.

I have to leave. You may ask me one more thing. That’s all I can offer you now.

The woman looked over her companion’s shoulder. Behind him, out of the perimeter of the protective sphere, hundreds of people were tearing each other apart. The finest particles of blood permeated the air and formed a scarlet haze. Bodies of humans, horses, and dogs were falling on the ground, torn and desecrated. Deprived of all sound, the scene felt sublime, almost cathartic. In the thick of battle, the woman noticed the mercurial outline of Laurene the Moonreader. Insane she was indeed. But one couldn’t deny her audacity. The Moonreader wielded a double-bladed scythe, an intimidating but awkward weapon, more suitable for ritual oblations than a fight. An apple-sized medallion, hanging on a piece of horse tendon, swayed erratically from side to side as she cut her way through the carnage. The orb. The man followed his companion’s gaze. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the artifact. He started raising his hand, and the air around him glowed in colors Marian Ru’ufus never knew existed. Suddenly, he changed his mind and let his hand drop. He turned to the woman and nodded as if to say that then and there he was all hers, as she was entitled to that last question he had promised.

The old woman fixed her eyes on the man’s face. Was there really the Great Apostasy?

A certain perplexity showed through the inscrutable composure of the man. I know nothing about it. Is it something from the Ubutszu history?

Oh no, not at all. Our wretched people ain’t capable of anything great. Much less, apostasy. It’s about your… kind.

As I said it is beyond my knowledge. It could be that I’ve learned about this event under a less dramatic name. If you tell me the story, I may—

No! The woman’s voice sounded grave as a thousand sins. It was the first time in their conversation when one interrupted the other. If you are lying, there’s no point. If you’re telling the truth, I don’t want to be the one who puts that burden on you. Not after all you’ve done for my family.

So be it.

I know you are much older than I am. Much wiser, too. And smarter beyond my imagining. But there are things which one only understands through being hit by life, through falling down, kneeling and crawling with a mouth full of sludge. You see these lines running deep all over my face? Some of them are the marks of years lived. But most are the marks of lessons learned. I wish dearly that you never have to learn any of them.

The man flinched. He wasn’t used to being talked down to. Especially not by a tribal person whose understanding of the workings of the world was elementary at best. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. The macabre spectacle raging all around didn’t feel real. He could escape it at any moment, unscathed, unnoticed, unbound. It was in his power to take any person’s life or save it, at least for the time being. Death was optional. What he couldn’t do was stop the bloodshed itself. Even the bloodshed he might have helped instigate. The man put his hands on the woman’s shoulders and answered, Thank you.

She smiled at him maternally. It appeared inappropriate and natural at the same time. The woman kissed the hand on her left shoulder and said, Even though you couldn’t answer my question, I will answer yours.

I do not have any.

I think you do. The one about Zoffra’s father. The answer is ‘yes.’ He remembers you. He won’t stop until all of you fall. Until the gates of the Stronghold are torn down.

The woman turned around and stepped out of the protective field, prepared to face the inevitable.

5. The Living Dead

Year 200 of the Ashkaratti Dynasty

Do they stand a chance?

Not even the slightest. By morning, it’ll be over. The Ubutszu are the living dead.

Lord Untu waved a hand, dismissing the scout who had brought him the news about the massacre taking place in the valley. From the nearby hill, where Untu’s army had camped, they could only see a sickly glow ascending over the treetops which were reliably guarding the Ubutszu settlement from prying eyes. Not so reliably from swords and arrows as it turned out. Untu’s head was aching, and that sent him into a particularly bad mood. Irritated, he glanced over his cohort. All that might was ready to do his bidding. But what good was its ability to crush and kill when it could do absolutely nothing about a simple headache?

Untu preferred not to make serious decisions if he felt unwell. Unfortunately, at the moment it didn’t seem like an affordable luxury. The night was still young and the land had just begun giving its warmth back to the chill air. Grapes of stars hung in the sky, pouring their milky light upon the blood-soaked Wasteland. An occasional gust of wind would bring with it the semi-sweet smell of burning homes and hopes. It wasn’t the pervasive odor that drove Lord Untu mad, though. It was the hateful profile of the centaur in the sky that never failed to awaken in Untu the purest kind of rage.

An eager adjutant materialized before Untu as he had accurately sensed the commander’s intention. Summon the Seven Elders and representatives of the Ubutszu. Tell them that an emissary of Iskoria wishes to adjudicate the dispute in the interest of lasting peace.

And if they won’t come, my lord?

Tell them that the emissary is I.

The adjutant