CITY OF BRIDGES

22

Realm of the Dead

“Master Lothas, there’s no information of a half-rrell or illios entering the Realm of the Dead. Do you think the rumours of their demise are false?”

“Hroltahgs are renowned for their inability to lie.” The high priest of Opsyss looked up from the scroll he was studying. “Are you certain we haven’t missed them, Alen? Many entities die every moment.”

“No, master. I can assure you. We’ve located and questioned the assassins who recently entered the Realm. One assures me the feline died, stabbed with his poisoned sword before she fell into a pit of poisonous gas, and the illios froze to death by his hand. But, the lack of the either entity suggests the assassin is mistaken. Could they have gone straight to their realm?”

“Unheard of except for the most devout followers. These minions were most definitely note devout whatsoever. Everyone travels via Purgatory when they die. It has been this way since the first death. If they died, we have somehow missed them; if they are not dead, then their location is a mystery and we have deceitful hroltahgs. This poses several potential conundrums.”

“Perhaps they’ve moved on to Reenat, hidden by the hroltahgs accompanying the guards?”

“Possibly. They may still be within White Cliffs. Send word to all our followers to continue searching. Whatever happens, keep this information from the Woorin Brotherhood; the idea of them thinking all was in vain appeals to me. In the meantime, I have things to consider.” Lothas absently waved him away, lighting incense to commence meditation.

*

“We have word from our people in Qelay, my master.” The young messenger licked his lips nervously.

Coundar continued his admiration of the view of the harbour and the plaza below. “And what would those words be?” the Woorin high priest asked from where he stood on the temple’s roof garden. He looked briefly at the youngster. “Come now lad, I’ll not bite your head off.”

“There was an attempt to steal the codex, master.”

“Yes, yes. Those miscreant illios will be dealt with for their failure.”

“Not our attempt, my lord. Another one.”

“Truly? Qelay was a busy little town wasn’t it?” He smiled, lifting a hand to his eyes as a gust of wind brushed his black, unbound hair across his face. “So, who was it, boy?” he asked.

“The Jart’lekk, my lord. And a powershaper. It was why our attempt failed.”

“I’m curious as to whom they are working for,” he murmured before speaking up. “I presume the rollos put a stop to that; slapped the Jart’lekk on the wrists and sent them on their way.”

“N-no my lord. All the Jart’lekk are dead.”

“Truly!” He looked surprised. “So, the hroltahgs called in the local garrison to help? I’m surprised they had the skill to kill a handful of assassins; they couldn’t even contain my two shapechangers.”

“Begging my master’s pardon, they didn’t. The information is a half-rrell, an illios and one hroltahgs were responsible.”

“Rollos are non-violent, and the Jart’lekk aren’t push-overs.” Coundar turned slowly. “Do not toy with me, boy,” he said ominously.

“I’m not.” The boy’s voice squeaked as he dropped to his knees, head bowed. “These are the findings of our Seekers. I’m relaying their message only, master. May the Great Lord Woorin flame me now if I speak false!”

Coundar waited a moment, looking for a sign from above. “Oh well,” he chuckled. “I guess there’s truth in what you say. Get up, boy. Continue. What news of this half-caste bitch and her blob side-kick? Do we know any details about them yet, their names for instance?”

The young messenger nervously stood, and related the details of the failed attack to the high priest. “No, master. Word is they also died from the effects of the assassin’s poison. The book is believed to be headed for Reenat, escorted by the hroltahgs and a company of Athglenn guards.”

Coundar considered the ramifications of this news. If the codex was on its way to Reenat, they would never get their hands on it. Not without starting a war. A war his church could not hope to win. Yet. All in all, it was a shame the Jart’lekk failed. At least with them, there would have been a chance to negotiate. He turned to the messenger.

“Send a message. Get our priests out of Qelay before they slip up and reveal something they shouldn’t. I’ll organise replacements. One or two here are getting a bit underfoot as it is – a few years up there will put them in their place.”

“Master,” he squeaked. “The hroltagh have expelled our order from Qelay.”

Coundar gripped the railing firmly to control his ire. He dismissed the boy with a frustrated wave. The view suddenly held little interest for him. He strode into his rooms to locate his snuffbox.

Opening a small box on his desk, he pulled out a sachet and carefully opened it so as not to spill any of the delectable powder. Placing the yellowish dust on the desk, he picked up a reed straw. Bending down, he quickly sniffed through the straw.

“At least those watchers didn’t get their grubby little hands on it,” he spoke to his reflection in the mirror, noticing his hair could do with further brushing. “And if that meddling pair of miscreants hadn’t died, you could have wrung information from them. They got their just rewards for their interference. They’ve caused the deaths of at least half a dozen of his men, worthless dogs as they were.” He chuckled, looking at his reflection with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “You’re going mad you know, talking to yourself like this?” His voiced changed slightly as responded. “I could have you flogged for saying that! Do you know to whom you speak?” he said to his reflection sternly.

He held his own gaze for a moment before looking away, resuming his preening. “Yes.” The high priest continued his monologue. “If only she had survived and come back here to Delta. I’d have something special for her. For both of them, I would, yes indeed. But if I can’t get her, at least I can take it out on others like her. Sacrifices, to make amends for all my efforts! All her half-breed friends will pay for her interference. And I know the person to do the job.” Coundar put his brush down and giggled as he struck the small gong by the bed then lay back on his lounge, waiting. Giorgi, his personal assistant entered shortly.

“Send for that young powershaper… what’s her name? The overly-ambitious rrell at the palace.”

“Mage Grigorid, master?”

“Yes. Niaarin, that’s the one. I have a proposition for her, if she’s interested.”

*

The silence was absolute as the priest in red robes walked into the gloomy depths. Though he’d never physically set foot on this path before, he felt mild pain inside his head whenever he took a wrong turn. He was being guided to his destination, feeling no sensation as he walked. It was as if his feet weren’t touching the ground, yet with each step, the scenery changed around him. On the edge of his vision, beyond the shadows, he discerned vague shapes ambling about as if in slow motion.

The man cast his gaze about, surveying his surroundings, trying to memorise everything. He thought it would be cavernous, but he was wrong. This place was open landscape with low, angry looking clouds sweeping rapidly by, yet there was no wind here. Random flashes on the horizon, or deep within the clouds, cast a bluish radiance across the landscape, but there was no thunder complimenting the lightning. Flanking the path were boulders and scraggly bushes. Leafless trees stood stark against the horizon. When the sky lit up, their branches reached like skeletal fingers for redemption. The gelid air was thick with the subtle, yet pungent, odour of rot.

“Hmm, not too dissimilar to my dungeons,” he mused.

The Realm of the Dead – Limbo, Purgatory – was a holding yard for the recently deceased and as such, was a bleak and barren place. It was supposed to be. It was ‘neutral’ territory, where gods contemplated the future of their deceased followers. Were they faithful enough to be raised to the plane of their religion – their ‘heaven’, or to remain here for eternity as a lesson for their lack of piety? One day he too would be here, but with the blessings of his god, not as a victim. When his time came, he would welcome death with open arms. It was simply another path to travel. He knew it. He believed it.

Ahead, he saw the figure he sought, dressed in the dark-grey attire of her profession. She looked the worse for wear and would continue to do so as long as she remained in this realm. The manner of her death was also evident; her neck and cheek were deeply lacerated, flaps of skin hung from the cuts – teeth and jawbone could be seen. Her left arm hung uselessly by her side. There was a stupor about her; her reactions to his arrival were slow, and her movements ponderous. Unless, or until she was called to her own heaven, she would continue to decay slowly.

Nothing ever happened quickly here. The dead didn’t mind. The dead didn’t know any difference.

“You are Evlin,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

She slowly looked up with her rheumy eyes at the tall stranger with the tattooed scalp standing in front of her. It took a moment for her to comprehend, and longer still to answer.

“Yes,” she croaked.

“I understand the Jart’lekk have an interest in a particular half-rrell.” Lothas noted Evlin’s slurred and raspy voice. Evidently her vocal chords had also been damaged. “I too have an interest in this creature. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement, accommodating both our needs? I’m sure you’d want revenge.”

A look of confusion crossed her face. Her head lolled from side to side. The neck wound opened and closed, creating a faint sucking sound. “I am dead … aren’t I?”

“Yes, very much so, but all is not lost. I’ve a task for you to perform, and the ways and means to enable you to do it.” He paused to let Evlin digest his proposal.

“You mean, I can live again?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I can hardly move. It’s as if I’m walking in mud. What use am I to you?”

“You will have all the abilities you had before, maybe even better. The rewards for success would be high but the price of failure would be even higher. In here, death is no escape.”

“I will not fail. I know what you want me to do.”

“Do you?”

“You too want the enemy dead.”

“What I’m after is her knowledge of a particular book. I understand you were a Jart’lekk Seeker and have the ‘talent’ to find this creature?”

“Yes. All my life, if I wanted something bad enough, I was able to locate it.”

“Splendid. That’s what I want you to do. Find her and kill her. Once her soul enters this Realm, she will be unable to avoid answering my questions. In here, the dead do talk.”

“I will do anything to get the enemy.” Her hand absently reached for the tail around her neck and stroked it. “I need to complete my mission.”

“Never forget you will be working for me. You are no longer a member of the Jart’lekk, or of the living, for that matter.”

“My vows—”

“Ceased the moment the blood stopped flowing through your black heart. You are no longer beholden to the Jart’lekk.”

“Then, to whom?”

“I am Lothas, High Priest of Opsyss. He is the Overlord of this Realm, but you will call me master now.”

* * *