Bleeding Iris

By Steven Chisholm

Would you forfeit your humanity in exchange for power?

Odalig is one of the few to be offered such a bargain by the fallen god, Shetani. Serving as a professional agitator in a conqueror's army, Odalig sows seeds of revolution amongst the serfs of enemy territories, encouraging them to rise against the oligarchs. He has long

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Chisholm
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869258519

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Interlude

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Epilogue

Title page. Steven Chisholm Bleeding Iris. An image of a rudimentary yet stylistic eye.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Chisholm

All rights are reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Prologue

The Guest

Umahte, the Mother, navigated the stars,

searching for the vessel of her creation.

The stains in the guest’s eyes were a confession of selfish ambition and immorality.

Break bread with the Haves, and they’ll ask of your journey. The lord moved with an oafish gait only a lifetime of leisure could conceive. Break bread with the Have-Nots, and they’ll ask for more bread. The stool moaned in desperation as the burly lord seated himself at the table.

I guess that makes me neither, said the guest.

How so? inquired the lord.

Because... The guest raised his empty chalice. I’m more partial to wine than bread.

The lord howled gleefully. You tell me much of your journey by that alone, my friend. Allow me to fill your cup… Chattel! More wine for my guest!

I’m intrigued, Lord Braddock. What is it you presume to know about my journey?

The lord’s eyes migrated from the kitchen threshold to his guest. Lord Braddock was not a very intelligent man. He was a man who rehearsed various scenarios of palaver alone in his chambers. He tugged at his great charcoal beard and squinted at his guest, playing at contemplation but truly wondering about the whereabouts of his chattel.

Wine is an antidote for the weary. The essentials have lost their appeal. You seek the exotic. The sign of a man who has weathered a hundred thousand footsteps upon this plane. The lord never had to count a copper sprig in his life. He was no mathematician. For instance, he was unaware that a hundred thousand steps only covered about a third of the distance to the nearest city. His guest had crossed an entire ocean just to reach the continent.

You’re a man who procures his wants and seizes his needs. That’s why I invite you into my chambers. You’re much as I.

The guest sprang from his stool, and the lord recoiled in fright. The guest raised his hands apologetically. He moved lazily through the dimly lit chambers. The heels of his Prarisritarian military brogans clacked on the marble floor, the clutter of novelty decor muffling the echo.

The guest reached the archway leading to the lord’s chamber balcony. He leaned against the stone railing overlooking the sloping city of Miradorn. Manors melted into modest dwellings and then into shanties until his gaze fell upon the enormous stone wall encircling the city. If you and I are much the same, then you understand why my army is camped outside your walls.

The table’s joints creaked as the lord lifted himself from his stool. The rattling of medals celebrating faux accolades made Lord Braddock’s approach sound like that of a desperate jewelry peddler. He landed beside his guest with a shaky sigh.

The tail end of the army could be seen just over the walls, while the bulk of the force remained concealed by a curtain of stone. Black- and red-striped tents were arranged in neat rows along the grassy plain, and if Lord Braddock had better eyesight, he’d be able to see the hundreds of red eyes emblazoned on the black Prarisritarian flags.

In our youth, we flee from snakes striking at our heels. But we few grow old and stare up at fortified battlements and declare, ‘That belongs to me,’ said the lord.

Pocket your balladry, lord. I know Miradorn was bequeathed unto you by your father, who, in turn, was awarded this city for his part in ending my family’s century of reign, said the guest.

Lord Braddock was taken aback by the shift in the conversation. He didn’t wish to upset his guest, but he had his honor to uphold. My father did so... by order of the king! he exclaimed with uncertainty.

Ah, the traitor to the crown and the recently deceased.

Lord Braddock’s face turned a fierce red, and his cheeks inflated as if he was about to breathe fire. A mixture of hatred and fear caused the lord’s corpulent jowls to tremble.

The door to his chambers rattled open, and his expression immediately deflated into that of contentment. That must be my chattel. Perhaps some more wine will settle this tension. Lord Braddock left his guest standing by the stone railing.

Come, echoed the lord jovially. Let us discuss the now and not revel in the past.

The guest passed through the threshold between the light of the balcony and the shadows of the lord’s chambers. From this fresh perspective, his eyes fell upon a golden shimmer midst the florid clutter. He approached the object first with curiosity, then with recognition.

The guest dragged a finger along the golden breastplate balancing atop a stand.

Ah, perhaps you are familiar, sighed Lord Braddock. A lamentable reminder of our tortured land’s past, but again… The lord met the guest and handed him a goblet of rust-colored wine. We shall focus on our current affair.

A Prarisritarian breastplate. The guest traced the engraved pattern on the right breast. A ghuri’ai. It is a ground-dwelling serpent. This breastplate belonged to a nodakh, the equivalent of a captain.

You haven’t touched your wine, the lord said in a desperate attempt to change the subject. If it’s not to your liking I can—

Earlier you said it’s only children who flee in fear of snakes. Well, Lord Braddock, there are those of age that are wise enough to flee a serpent such as the ghuri’ai. Do you know why nodakh wore this animal upon their breast?

For one who’s so partial to wine, you really don’t—

It is because nodakh are the fang that inflicts the venom. They are the artisans of death. Without the fang, there is no toxin.

Lord Braddock began to haltingly backpedal from his guest, his face contorting into painful realization.

The guest raised his goblet in a mocking toast. Cheers, he said, downing his goblet in a few furious gulps. He tossed the cup across the chamber where it crashed into a crisscrossed display of rapiers.

Was it poetry that drew you to spike my wine with ghuri’ai venom, or was it simply the most potent poison you could acquire? The guest was stalking the lord, matching his pace to the lord’s slow retreat.

You’re mad! The lord said desperately. My abode is a haven! I-I would never make an attempt on the life of a guest!

You’re not the first to test the veracity of the rumors. You imprudent lords mistake the whispers for a gentle breeze.

Lord Braddock backed into a dresser, rattling an assortment of jewelry and toppling a glass sculpture. The abrupt shatter was enough to provoke the lord.

Guards! Chattel! the lord cried. He hurriedly shifted further toward the corner of the room. He was desperate to further separate himself from his guest.

There was a quick succession of footsteps. They neither came from the lord nor the guest; they came from the lord’s chattel, who had been hiding amidst the clutter of the chamber. She pierced the shadows like a hungry predator. She was no ordinary chattel; she wielded her dagger as if it was her own appendage.

She brought down the dagger from overhead, her aim true, the path set for the base of the neck. A killing blow, as rehearsed time and time again. Her confidence swelled as the dagger met its target.

There was a sound like a hammer meeting an anvil.

The dagger ricocheted off the nape of the guest’s neck and clattered to the marble floor.

The guest turned to face the assailant. The chattel, small and slender, backed away in disbelief.

Not all rumors are fabrications, said the guest.

She abandoned the air of an assassin in the blink of an eye. The chattel fled the room, bouncing off the lord’s collection of adornments in her panic.

Chattel! beckoned the lord. Guards!

The guest turned lazily back to the cowering lord.

Guards! cried the lord once more.

There is no one, Lord Braddock. I gave the signal to my retinue while on the balcony.

The lord’s fate began to unfold before him. He felt helpless before the immortal.

Their blood is on your hands. Their lives forfeit to a goblet of peculiar tasting wine and an unmerited heir.

How? The lord’s legs gave out and his body went slack. His posture dissolved as he slunk to the floor. How is it that you were offered such a Bargain?

The guest squatted so that his eyes were level with the lord’s. The candles in the room cast shadows along his face, but the lord was solely focused on the guest’s eyes. Red lines spilled from his copper irises like bloody tendrils. The brand of a man who’d accepted the terms of his Bargain. There was a distinct contrast between the lord’s natural, hazel eyes and the chaotic, crimson intertwine of a Bleeding Iris.

It’s not for me to question the decisions of the all-powerful Shetani. I am simply their receptacle.

But how is it the demon chose you? A man of such influence? inquired the lord.

"Perhaps this demon saw the injustice of a family deprived of its land. Perhaps this demon has a distaste for traitors and usurpers. They do not tell me their reasons."

But what of the Curse? Surely the scales must be balanced with an unimaginable burden.

The guest tapped his temple with his finger. Such knowledge does me no good outside this head.

The lord’s eyes began to dance about the room, looking for any sign of salvation. Trophies of his ancestors’ victories embellished the chambers. A sacrificial dagger from the extinct tribe of Ikbeisi. A side-sword used by Vernon the Fat at the Battle at Septal Wood. A brilliant display of throwing knives surrendered by Rector Pulgnak and his band of followers. These were the accomplishments of his forefathers. Yet, here he sat, staring death in the face, winless, on the verge of soiling himself.

Lord Braddock flinched as his guest abruptly moved toward the center of the room. He picked up something off the floor. The chattel’s dagger.

You treat your servants well. The guest flipped the dagger over in his hand, inspecting the golden, bejeweled hilt. There was an inscription on the blade written in ancient Diodenic. The guest read it aloud.

"Vetelu chastens the wicked iris… An appropriate adage for a weapon that sought to destroy a vessel of Shetani."

My seat is yours. My castle is yours. I have tested your fortitude, and you have exceeded my expectations. Lord Braddock’s false admiration was an attempt to blanket his cowardice. Call me lord no more, for it is you that is truly deserving of my rule. It is you who is the rightful lord of Miradorn—

"Shhh… Your adulation is unnecessary, Lord Braddock. I’m sure you’re well aware of the frivolity of compliments to such men in our station."

The guest’s eyes remained fixed upon the dagger. Is it true that those who accept the Gifts of Shetani are persecuted in your streets?

The lord knew his guest was familiar with the law of Seltonwelf, so he remained silent. Nearly the entire continent served the Almighty Vetelu. Why would his city be any different?

Does your god only fulfill your material desires? Am I not a testament to the superior generosity of Shetani?

I now see the error in our judgment. We are lost. Had the great Shetani deemed me an acceptable host, perhaps I’d have been able to see the truth, as you do.

No, no, no, Lord Braddock. It does not take a Bleeding Iris to see the light. If you had let your people freely accept the terms of the Bargain without persecution, then you’d bear witness to the many miracles of the one true god.

Was there no convincing his guest of his concession?

The guest pocketed the knife. There was no need for a sheath as he could not be harmed. He returned to the spot where the lord lay cowering and extended a hand. The lord looked warily at the hand. Perhaps it was recognition of his penance. His guest’s words were unrelenting, but this gesture seemed so kind.

Lord Braddock gripped his guest’s hand and wholly put himself at the mercy of this man. He expected the flesh to be hard as steel – certainly, it had to be if it could deflect a blade – but it was warm and soft, as if the lord and he were woven from the same fabric.

The guest helped the lord to his feet and then walked to the chamber doors. Come, is all the guest said.

The lord still questioned his fate, but the invitation to depart the room seemed welcoming. He followed the guest into the hallway.

The two soldiers stationed at the entrance to the chambers were gone. The castle was quiet, absent its typical clamor of servants and soldiers. There were only two sounds that could be heard amidst the limestone corridor: Flames purring along the walls, dancing atop their mounted torches, and a woman softly weeping beyond the bend. This ambiance was new and frightening to the lord who’d spent his life in these walls, but to the guest, it seemed natural.

The guest rounded the corner, but the lord was hesitant to follow. The woman’s cries echoed, bolstering the lord’s consternation. Lord Braddock breathed in the unsatisfying, humid air and proceeded down the hall.

Besides his guest, the first thing his eyes saw was his chattel, wrapped in a fetal position on the floor. Her body lurched with each sob. She had twisted her servant’s ensemble around her form like a protective cocoon, hiding her face from the terror she had witnessed. The guest looked pityingly down upon her.

She seemed to finally notice their presence.

Make it go away. The words were spoken in fragments and in such a hushed tone that they were hardly comprehensible.

The lord was about to probe for answers, but before he could, he noticed that there was another person in the hall for whom he had not accounted.

Shrouded in an orange and tan niqab, the woman stood as still as a statue at the other end of the hall. Strands of fabric hung from her ensemble like dehydrated vines. The slit of her headdress revealed the blemished eyes of a Bleeding Iris. Fiery, red braids corrupted the sclerae, and the lord felt as if he was peeking through the window of something intimate. The weeping chattel revealed the falsity in those eyes.

Does she have a name? The guest’s sudden inquiry untethered the lord’s trance.

My chattel… It took some time for the name to come to him. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever addressed her by her name. She goes by Itzal.

The guest nudged the woman with his foot. Stand, Itzal.

The woman’s body only constricted tighter. She seemed resolute dying upon the polished, stone tiles.

Sarza, said the guest, turning to the veiled woman. Leave us, if you will.

Without hesitation, Sarza abandoned her eerie inaction. With a pithy nod, the woman shuffled in the opposite direction. Her feet swept the floor, the soughing steps drowning out the whimpers of the chattel. Strips of fabric trailed in her wake, creating the illusion of a bronze specter withdrawing from their presence.

When she was out of sight, the guest once more addressed the chattel. Itzal, fear no more. She’s gone.

Itzal’s fingers unfurled from her face, and her contorted, fear-wrought features started to slacken. Her eyes darted about as if awoken from a nightmare. W-What—

Never have I seen Sarza evoke such an intense response. Please, recompose yourself so that I may better look at you.

Itzal slowly rose from the floor, sobering reality evidently creeping up on her. She’d attempted to kill an immortal. She was surely going to die. But while Itzal’s mind was infested with punitive thoughts, her legs carried her upward so that she was now at eye level with the collar of the guest’s brown tunic, the red emblem of the Prarisritai breaching her lower peripheral.

There was something Lord Braddock was hoping his guest hadn’t noticed about his chattel, but in the flame-lit hallway, all was clear.

The guest’s eyes bore into Itzal’s. A solid red ring encapsulated her russet irises like a stagnant moat of gore. A sign of one born under the blessing of Shetani but who had yet to accept the terms of the Bargain. Itzal, like many of Shetani’s blessed children on the continent of Seltonwelf, was a Shackled Iris.

So, a slave in more ways than one, said the guest. Who are we to spurn the Gifts of the Almighty?

I, began the chattel. But what could she say? Accepting the Bargain was outlawed in Seltonwelf. By becoming a Bleeding Iris, she would fall under the protection of the lord’s guest but would become an enemy to all of Seltonwelf. Itzal eyed the lord, who seemed to survey the interaction as an outsider, unsure if he held authority any longer. He was a child on the sidelines of a tense game of kiplicorn.

The guest noticed Itzal’s hesitation in the presence of her master. Him? The guest turned to the lord. This is what inhibits you?

Lord Braddock was growing tired of his meager role. He fought back fear and declared, You invade our land, and yet know nothing of our customs? My chattel is my property. I have documentation stating so, and if I so wish she abide by the laws of the land, I will—

The lord’s defense was cut short. A strange sensation. It was as if someone had slashed him across the neck with a wet brush. At first, he thought it was the shock of the strange feeling that muted his rebuttal, but the subsequent stinging pain revealed the true cause. He’d been nicked by a razor a fair share of times in his life, and he thought the feeling would be akin to that. It was so much worse, and it, unfortunately, did not end quickly for him.

The lord fell to the ground, clinging to the flaps of his throat as if it were a leaking waterskin and he was stranded in the desert. Lord Braddock departed the world much in the same way he entered it: crying, flailing, wordless, nothing to his name but his ancestors’ achievements.

Itzal’s eyes were on the lord, while the guest’s eyes were upon her. The guest disregarded the lord as if he was a fussy child throwing a tantrum.

I presume this makes things less complicated, said the guest.

Itzal’s words caught in her throat. Murder, the liberator. The shock of freedom. She nodded instead.

The lingering demon was motionless on the brink of her peripherals. Or perhaps it wasn’t a demon. Maybe this newcomer was right. Could this ghostly apparition instead be her guardian? She’d been trained to neglect this phantom that only she could see, this being that had chosen her as its vessel. Would there be relief in acknowledging the demon? The demon that constantly recounted the terms of her Bargain? She was hungry for the power but wary of the Curse.

Above all, her life was on the line.

What say you?

I will accept, said Itzal. She listened to the demon’s instructions. "But they say not here. Somewhere dark."

The guest did not question her. He knew that whatever she requested would be in defense of the consequences of the Bargain.

Then follow me, he said.

They left the lord behind. They bypassed the brink of his reeking excrement in a matter of steps, only to be affronted by more foul odors.

Itzal clung to her composure as they passed body after body. Gore hung from the ceiling. Blood painted the walls and extinguished the hanging torches. A soldier’s torso leaned against one wall, while the lower half lay discarded at the bottom of the stairs. The lord had her trained to kill, but Itzal only dreamed of a righteous execution. Now, she bore witness to the true nature of death. She was so naive.

The Bargain. The power. The Curse. Itzal retreated within herself to escape the carnage. Some of the slain were people she knew.

It felt like an eternity before they reached the marble columns at the entrance to the castle. Several unrecognizable bodies were scattered about the floor like heaps of bloodied laundry. Shards of broken pottery mingled with the hardening blood. A grisly mosaic. It was similar to the familiarity one feels in a nightmare: This both was and was not the room Itzal so often frequented.

Just a little further, said the guest.

She moved toward the entrance mechanically. The red ivory doors were encased in murder, but Itzal wanted nothing more than to pass through their frame. She didn’t pause. She didn’t look to see if the crunch beneath her feet was from the remnants of a clay sculpture or fragments of bone.

She could hear voices beyond the doors. The doors, well oiled, didn’t make a sound as they gradually revealed the breadth of the bewildered throng that seemed to have no end. Itzal was unsure whether the squawking crowd was voicing their admiration or dismay.

None of it mattered to Itzal. Her liberator would see to her safety. After all, she’d agreed to accept the Bargain.

The crowd began to part as the guest approached. They were no strangers to the rumors. They knew there was nothing to be done. Not in the face of an immortal. This act alone showed that they were wiser than their former lord.

Itzal followed obediently, and the voices became clear.

Will there be no siege now?

I recognize that girl.

Has the lord been slain in his own abode?

That girl’s the lord’s chattel.

Are our sons safe?

He has shown mercy to the chattel.

Is he truly so merciful?

They would soon find out.

They made it through with no resistance. The people of Miradorn held no stakes in the war. No defiance meant no pillaging, rapes, or murders.

A horse-drawn wagon awaited the two on the other side of the horde. Unadorned and unpainted, it wasn’t what one would expect a man with such prestige to ride. Yet, he clearly didn’t require such embellishments to garner attention.

He moved aside so that Itzal could enter first. The man at the front holding the reins stared into the cabin. A Bleeding Iris. He nodded and grunted, not in an unpleasant way. Itzal returned the nod, but such pleasantries were still beyond her. Her eyes still reflected the crimson hue of the ruined castle corridors.

The guest seated himself beside Itzal. Bring us home, if you may, he said to the coachman.

Another grunt and another nod.

The wagon began its descent into the poorer districts of Miradorn, towards the great portcullis. The shadow of the colossal wall gradually swallowed them. Most of the people seemed to have migrated to the castle to observe the conclusion of the domestic parlay, but there were those who stayed behind to continue with their daily duties as if the slumbering beast beyond the gate was inconsequential. The abodes devolved from wood to clay. These were the people who would suffer the most at the hands of the bloodthirsty soldiers.

He influences the emotions of living things, the guest said suddenly, nodding toward the coachman. That’s his Gift.

And what of his Curse? The words tasted strange in her mouth. A conversation with the man she intended to kill only moments before spawned an odd sensation within her.

Corman! shouted the guest, startling Itzal. What do you think of this fine day?

The coachman grunted.

Itzal cocked her head.

He can’t communicate but through emotion. The guest laughed. It seemed in bad form, but who was Itzal to question their relationship?

There were already people who lacked the capacity to verbally communicate. This Curse didn’t seem so dreadful. At least, not compared to the Curse she would soon bear.

The wagon halted before the iron portcullis. The soldiers above loomed over the crenelations. You’d expect to sense their hatred of their enemy from atop those walls, but Itzal swore that she could taste the desperation. These men didn’t want a fight. Not when confronted with such overwhelming numbers.

The guest stood up and beckoned toward the sky. You remember the terms of the parlay. I am to be returned to my army.

The hesitation lasted a mere second. The gate retracted into the wall, slow and grumbling like the surrender of a stone giant.

Onward! the guest said jovially.

The army beyond the wall stirred. A simmering concoction, blessed by Shetani. This was the city-army of the Prarisritai, the migrating heart of a distant land. This was Kana Balerrha.

Hundreds of banners danced to the patterns of the wind, boasting the sweeping shape of the red eye. Military personnel were stationed at the forefront of the city-army. Soldiers huddled around red- and black-striped canopies, lackadaisical in appearance but undoubtedly prepared for battle. Mobile siege weapons remained dormant on the plain. Itzal hoped they wouldn’t be called upon to unleash a devastating hailstorm upon Miradorn.

An airy blast of a horn startled the distracted Itzal. The coachman had apparently signaled their approach as the soldiers in the path of the wagon sprang to life and created an aisle for their king.

Itzal looked to the soldiers flanking either side of the wagon. Disheveled hair and tangled beards,