Neethra: The Eye of Olmindaros
Skallos looked out across the gray waters of the Straits of Eeshi, unmindful of the chaos around him. The wharves and piers of Neethra’s busy harbor were not a place to seek out solitude, yet Skallos found himself here most mornings, contemplating the iron sea and its transient ships and storms. Besides, the crowd was unlikely to bother him, at least intentionally, as the northern warrior towered over the native folk, who tended toward short and dark. Skallos cut a daunting figure, six and a half feet tall, his shirt of steel links lined with the white fur of some creature of the frigid northern wastes, his great black sword clutched point down in his massive fist, like the staff of a sorcerer. His beard, russet and gold, whipped to and fro in the wet morning gusts, and his eyes were the color of ice. He stood and he watched, until the sun climbed high in the sky and the heat became close to unbearable. Yet again, the ship he awaited did not arrive.
Turning, he set about the long climb up into the city from the wharves. The city of Neethra was a twisting warren of streets and hive-like buildings leading higher and higher up the side of the great hill until one came to the great plateau at the top. Even here, the buildings seemed to continue climbing, as if reaching up for the sun that became ever more elusive at street-level as the shops and tenements crowded closer and closer together. Eventually the streets became little more than tunnels, shadowy corridors twisting inward and onward, until finally opening into the center of the plateau, a jungle filled ravine that descended down again into the heart of the hill. The buildings edged as close as they dared to the jungle, and then stopped, abruptly, as if cleared away by a swipe from some massive, unearthly hand. Skallos continued on, down into the ravine, heedless of the stares of onlookers, who regarded him as one regards a madman set about some task only he can comprehend.
The big warrior continued down a scant path beneath the broad green leaves of the jungle foliage. The sound of a modest waterfall soon drowned out the noises of the surrounding city, and Skallos came to a broad pool, before which sat a man. We say sat, though in truth, if one looked closely, it was seen that he fact floated some few inches off the ground. He was a small man, leaner and darker than the local stock, and even with his eyes closed in meditation he radiated a sense of calm competence, wisdom, and awareness. Beside him, on the rocky shore of the pool, was a small heap of sacks and satchels, crowned with a sheathed scimitar, its hilts inlaid with pearl that gleamed luminously in the scant sunlight reaching this far into the ravine.
“Not today, old friend?” said the man, his voice deep and resonant, the voice of orator or actor, a marvelous voice, many had remarked, able to seduce, command, or reprimand at a whim. Though his eyes remained closed, he stroked his gleaming, plaited black beard with long fingers that betrayed a touch of irritation.
“Nay, Raghedis,” rasped the great warrior, “it seems I must continue my vigil indefinitely.”
“One would hope not, old friend,” answered the other, “though many may find a life spent in endless contemplation of dawn, I suspect it is not in your blood to find solace in such a fate, beautiful though the sunrise may be.”
“Beautiful? I hadn’t noticed.” said the warrior, looking genuinely perplexed, “I was watching for a ship…”
“Ah, of course.”
“And what of your own task?’
“No luck there either, friend,” answered Raghedis, “though my quest has not gone so unnoticed as your own.”
“I assume you speak of the men arrayed at the edge of the clearing? I had thought them merely an assortment of very ugly statues.”
“No, my friend, they are quite alive,” said the older man with a chuckle, “and seemed quite intent on mayhem when they crept up upon me. As there were only seven, and you had not had amusement in some few days now, I thought you might appreciate them as a sort of gift, and a sporting one at that. Shall I release them now?”
Skallos looked at the masked men. All were dressed in local fashion, with the addition of cloth masks and head-wrappings, and each clutched a long, curving knife in one hand and a loop of rope in the other. They seemed filthy and ill-kept to the fastidious northerner. Each of them stood as if rooted to the ground, their open eyes blank and senseless.
“Bah, you needn’t have bothered; they look hardly deserving of the term ‘sport’. Local assasseens, I gather?” Skallos spat on the ground, and hefted his black sword in both hands, “go ahead, let’s see what they’re capable of.”
Grinning, the older man opened his eyes at last, and stepped down from his invisible perch and stood on his own feet, smoothing out his impeccable silk trousers and vest, straitening his shirt, and leaning down, picked up and unsheathed his scimitar with one fluid, graceful motion. “I shall rob you of the lives of any who slip past you my friend, you are so warned.”
With a nearly imperceptible flick of his other hand, he released the spell holding the cut-throats. The men came to their senses, shaking their heads and looking shocked for a moment, before uttering screams and charging the two outlanders with knives and ropes flailing.
Heedless of their screams, Skallos stepped forward to meet the first of them head-on. The heavy blade swept up and across, as if weightless in the big man’s hands, and the assassin fell to his knees, shrieking and clutching at his ruined abdomen. Again and again the sword rose and fell, Skallos spun and dipped, and two more shrieking men fell to the ground, flopping noisily about in futile search of lost limbs or entrails. With a savage whipping motion, Skallos flung the dark blood from his blade and waiting for the remaining men to advance.
The assassins were not all stupid, however, and the remaining four began to encircle the warrior, slowly swinging their loops of rope. With a shout, one of the men jumped forward, flinging one end of the coil at Skallos, who stepped backward to avoid it. This, unfortunately, placed him the path of the second man, who also flung out his coil of rope, which landed squarely around the neck of the great northern warrior. The assassin then jerked back on the rope savagely, tightening it. Skallos grasped his neck with one hand and heaved himself forward, pulling the assassin off his feet and towards him helplessly. Spinning, he impaled the man on his sword. At the same time, the other three men cast their nooses as well, and more rope ensnared the big man, who was beginning to look somewhat purple and strained. He cast his bulging eyes towards his friend, who still stood quietly by, regarding the struggle impassively.
“Yes, my friend?” Raghedis called, “you wish something? Speak and it is yours!”
Skallos gurgled and hissed, dropped his sword altogether and began beating at the ropes around his neck.
“Hmm?” said Raghedis, looking a bit confused and shaking his head, “I’m sorry my large friend, I have no idea what you’re saying. Perhaps you could speak more clearly?”
The warrior raged wordlessly, his face now darkening nearly to black.
“Ah drat!” Raghedis cursed, “I cannot hear you with these ridiculous fellows toying about. You there, leave off now, I’m trying to hear what he has to say!”
The three assassins still ignored the older man, and were drawing nearer to their struggling victim with knives raised once more.
“How rude!”
Raghedis mouthed a string of words in an ancient tongue and flung out his hand toward one of the assassins. A writhing ball of smoke leapt from his palm and struck the man in his chest, where it flared into hot white flame, enveloping the man, who spun away screaming to die noisily just short of the pool. Then, striding forward, he cut the remaining ropes from his friend. The two surviving assassins came at him with their knives, but he met their attacks with sharp ripostes and parries, and in seconds they both had slipped dead to the ground.
“Now, friend Skallos,” he said, turning toward the warrior, who was pulling the ropes from his neck and cursing in between short, ragged breaths, “what were you saying?”
Skallos glared at his friend, chest heaving, with his hands on his knees, “I said….don’t….you dare…interfere!”
“Ah! I shall endeavor not to, then! Feel free to continue your struggle against them, my friend. I believe the one over there is still twitching…”
After several minutes, the two had laid out the bodies of the assassins in a line, and searched them thoroughly. Raghedis had relieved them of any stray coin, of which they seemed to have an unusually tidy sum, and was busy placing copper coins on each of their eyes.
“What are you doing, old man?” rumbled Skallos, “why do you decorate them so? Would not the coin be better spent in the Night Garden?”
“Getting rid of the evidence, my friend,” Raghedis answered, winking slyly at his companion, “other than us, only the priests of Kronus come to this place, to be nearer the underworld of their lord. They will pass this way at sunset, and the coins will buy these dead men’s passage to the underworld. Their religion will force them to dispose of these bodies in the proper manner, rather than report this incident to the authorities of the city around us.”
“Authorities!” scoffed the northern warrior, laughing, “always jesting, sorcerer!”
“True, they are lax, to put it mildly. Yet we are about serious business here in this City of Thieves my friend, and already someone knows of our errand, or suspects, else we would not have had a visit from these fine gentlemen.”
“Yes, but who?”
“I do not know, my friend,” sighed the older man, “but I suspect this sign they wear may shed some light on the mystery.” He pulled up the sleeve of one of the men. A tattoo was inscribed on the bottom of the man’s forearm, depicting a serpent entwined about an immodest woman with exaggerated features. “They all bear this device.”
“Some of that coin there may loosen some tongues, Raghedis.”
“True, and the rest should carry us through yet another night of indulgence in the ‘Garden, eh?” the sorcerer laughed and began gathering his things, “And on the morrow you have a special task…”
“I know,” interrupted the northern warrior wryly, “ ‘a ship comes at dawn…’”.
“Indeed, my friend, indeed…”
more to come
