To Ride Hell’s Chasm

While the cedar smoke thinned in the breeze through the arrow slit, the physician removed his fogged spectacles. He buffed the glass with a limp handkerchief pulled from his waistcoat pocket. Shaky fingers restored the wire frames. Behind thick lenses, his bright, blinking gaze tracked the desert-bred captain, each move. Mykkael doused the torch. Then he crouched by his pallet to drag out a strongbox tucked underneath. The lock had no key, but worked through a puzzle array of brass levers fashioned by artisans from the far east.

‘You seem to possess an impressive experience,’ the physician observed at due length. ‘That’s most reassuring. I suppose, in your past, you were probably hired to fight in a sorcerers’ war?’

Mykkael nodded, terse, head bent and hands busy sorting the contents of his opened coffer. ‘Against the Sushagos, yes, and after them, Quidjen and Rathtet.’

‘You fought against Rathtet?’ The physician dropped his crushed linen, startled. ‘I didn’t know any defenders had survived that unspeakable bloodbath.’

‘Very few,’ Mykkael said, his voice cranked and tight. ‘A miserable, unfortunate few.’

‘Oh dear. Not a subject you like to dwell on, I see.’ The tactful pause lingered, while the physician recovered his dropped handkerchief. He was a worldly man, informed well enough to know that mercenaries steered clear of countries invaded by sorcerers. Lavish pay lured only the brashest young fools. The ones who signed on were quick to regret. Spellcraft could inflict worse than ruinous losses. Scarred veterans, returning, were wont to avoid a repeat of their wretched mistake.

Mostly, such conflicts levied trained troops from the far south, where skilled viziers could grant them defences. Aware his repeat record of paid service was unusual enough to seem suspect, Mykkael gave a short explanation. ‘My contracts were arranged by a barqui’ino master, who considered high risk and extreme danger to be part of an aspirant’s training. The eastern despots always hired. Paid swords were preferred, even prized for their use in covert reconnaissance. The ones who fell into enemy hands couldn’t be tortured to spill secrets they didn’t know to begin with.’

‘Yes, I see that.’ The physician huddled into his sweat-dampened shirt. ‘You would have been valued for that sort of work, dark-skinned as you are, and facile with your gift of languages.’

Mykkael straightened up, bearing a worn leather sack with a drawstring. He fished inside, and withdrew a grimy copper disc strung on a scraped length of rawhide. The thong had been cut more than once, and rejoined. Three mismatched knots interrupted its contiguous length. ‘Here,’ said the captain. ‘Wear this for protection.’

The physician gave the token his dubious inspection. Under verdigris tarnish, the wafer of metal had been finely scored with overlaid circles, interlocked through a series of triangles. The leather looped through it was darkened with stains, faintly rancid with a dried rime of sweat. ‘What is it? These are bloodstains?’

‘Talisman,’ Mykkael answered, ‘a potent charm, fashioned to guard against the assault of cold-struck sorcery’ He had his fingers thrust deep in the sack, apparently counting the contents. ‘These were made for the foot troops who fought Rathtet.’ Confronted by the physician’s masked shudder, he said in offhand reassurance, ‘Yes, they’re still potent, dried blood notwithstanding. The men who wore these died of arrows.’

His inventory complete, Mykkael closed the drawstrings, then tied the sack on to his belt. ‘Don’t change the knots. They were ritually done to protect against theft and mishap.’

As the physician’s unease progressed to reluctance, the captain stepped close, lifted the artefact from the man’s shaken grasp and slipped the thong over his head. ‘There. Relax, now. You’re safe. Wear that talisman next to your skin, and don’t take it off when you wash.’

Mykkael stepped back. The physician watched with mollified eyes as the captain eased his game leg on the stool beside the plank trestle. The keep officer had left a pitcher of cold water on a tray. Mykkael poured, not troubled by the lesser scars on his arms as he offered the terracotta mug. ‘Drink?’

The physician refused, still afflicted by over-strung nerves.

Mykkael sucked down a deep draught for himself. ‘Now,’ he said calmly. ‘Tell me what happened to Beyjall.’

The little physician’s poise crumbled utterly. ‘I didn’t see much,’ he confessed. Shaking hands clasped, he cleared his throat, and manfully started explaining. ‘When I finished the last of my morning appointments, I went round to ask for a candle. Not that I needed one. I hadn’t sensed trouble. But better, I thought, to apply for the remedy before the onset of first symptoms.’ He trailed off, his dough face flushed to crimson.

‘Go on,’ Mykkael urged. ‘What’s done is over.’

The physician braced up, his eyes glassy with recall. ‘When I arrived at the apothecary’s shop, the door was ajar. That was not usual. He liked to have customers let themselves in. But when I mounted the steps, the front room was empty. The iron-strapped door to the stillroom was closed, a surprise, since the place appeared open for business. That’s when I first realized something was wrong. I called Beyjall’s name. When he failed to appear, I looked closer. Scribed on the plaster beside the door’s lintel, I encountered what looked like a sorcerer’s mark.’

The narrative ground to a painful halt. Mykkael waited, stone-patient.

‘Glory preserve us,’ the physician gasped. ‘You know how it feels to encounter pure evil?’

‘I know,’ Mykkael answered. Just that; nothing more.

The physician shook his head, shivering. ‘Powers forgive me, I ran in blind panic’

‘Well you should have,’ Mykkael said with bracing force. ‘Such craft-marks are volatile and unspeakably dangerous!’

The physician huddled, forlorn on the pallet, unable to shake off his misery. ‘Dear me, to my sorrow, so I have seen. Those voracious, unnatural flames, and the smell—one doesn’t forget.’ He swallowed, then mustered frayed nerves and faced the garrison captain straight on. ‘The apothecary was alive, and most likely locked in. He must have realized someone had entered. I heard his cries, and his pounding as he begged for help to escape.’

Mykkael showed the wretched survivor nothing but sympathy. ‘You came straight here?’

‘Directly’ The physician dabbed moisture from behind his fogged lenses. ‘Captain, I hoped you might know what to do.’

Mykkael paused through a dreadful, brief silence, run through by awareness that his men from the garrison had responded; the squad that had rushed to the apothecary’s rescue had shouldered that lost cause in disastrous ignorance. By the narrowest margin, they had missed being swept to their deaths in the explosive first conflagration.

Only the choking press in the streets and the gift of blind luck had preserved them.

At uneasy length, the captain said gently, ‘Beyjall died, very horribly. You couldn’t have helped him. Nor could I, had I been present. That mark you saw was pre-set to ignite within a matter of seconds. You are more lucky than you know to be here at the keep, safe and breathing. Caught out of his depth, let me tell you, Doctor, the wisest man first saves himself.’

The physician braced up. Sound sense notwithstanding, his torn heart would take more convincing. ‘Poor Beyjall. You believe he was murdered because of the drowned seeress we examined?’

Mykkael shook his head. ‘Not entirely, no. I think he was killed for his knowledge. Just as she was. They were the two people in this placid realm who were first to notice the works of a sorcerer afoot.’

‘Dear me.’ The physician blinked, his prim, worried glance on the captain. ‘The unnatural creature might strike at you next.’

‘I expect that he will.’ Mykkael drank the last of his water and stood. ‘You’ll be all right? One of my men will escort you home, and stay to keep watch at your doorway’

The physician rose also, and hooked up his crushed jacket. His bobbing stride trailed the captain’s lamed move to depart. ‘Will he carry a talisman like the one you gave me?’

Mykkael stopped. He turned his head, the tigerish glint in his almond-dark eyes crushed out by the force of his pity. ‘I don’t have enough of them to go around.’

The physician sucked a breath, raised to chilled understanding. ‘Thank you for that honesty. I can manage well enough on my own. Heaven preserve us! What a sorrowful thing, that such evil should invade these quiet mountains and stake out a foothold in Sessalie.’

‘My task,’ snapped Mykkael, ‘is to see such power thwarted. You’ll go home with my man-at-arms as your escort, and sleep with him guarding your doorstep. On your way, would you stop on an errand for me? You knew the apothecary better than most. Someone must pay a call and inform Beyjall’s widow the crown will pay for his funeral.’

Eight centuries past, one of Sessalie’s queens had desired a rooftop garden. She had grown sunflowers to feed gleaning birds, and shared their winged company through hours of contemplation. The king who was her great-grandson added topiary, and an array of formal flowerbeds, which, years later, the kitchen staff claimed to grow herbs under glass for winter seasoning. No one recalled which subsequent sovereign had added the turrets, and planted the first of the trees.

By Isendon’s reign, the oaks had grown ancient, their gnarled trunks halfway fused with the stonework that vaulted the entry. A confection of wicker tables and chairs scattered under the shaded branches now became the afternoon refuge for Sessalie’s ranking courtiers. Just now the primary occupants were royal, Crown Prince Kailen and the heir apparent of Devall, attended as usual by the deferent circle of his liveried retinue. Only the saturnine advocate was absent, dispatched on an unspecified errand.

On the table, banked in a bowl of shaved ice, a serving of strawberries sweetened their conversation. The Prince of Devall had asked for red wine. The gold tray held a bottle of the famed cloud grape, just emptied. Another one had been opened to breathe, when the seneschal arrived, puffing from his three-storey ascent from the council hall.

‘My Lord Shaillon, you look as tried by the day’s frustrations as any man on two feet,’ greeted Devall’s heir apparent, his dauntless good cheer a brave effort to lift the elderly statesman’s flagged spirits.

Prince Kailen sighed and pushed back the blond hair tumbled over his forehead. ‘Still no word on my sister.’

The seneschal nodded, exhausted beyond platitudes.

Too polished to show disappointment, Devall’s heir apparent lifted the bottle, selected a clean goblet from the tray, then poured in a dollop, and swirled it. ‘Sit, my good man. You’re just in time. We needed someone with a fresh palate to taste this superlative vintage.’

The seneschal drew out a chair and perched like a mournful sparrow. Polite to the bone, he accepted the wine, then cast a frowning glance on the emptied glass next to Prince Kailen. ‘His Highness ought not to be drinking after last night’s indulgence.’

Devall’s heir apparent smiled with sheepish charm. ‘The lapse is my fault. I can’t be truly sorry. Your kingdom produces exceptional wines. Bereft of my bride, who can blame me for seeking such exquisitely seductive consolation?’

Sessalie’s seneschal tasted the sample, then nodded his reserved approval. While the Prince of Devall filled his goblet in earnest, he asserted, ‘A wine haze won’t help Princess Anja’s recovery.’

‘No,’ Kailen murmured. ‘But it does dull the ache.’ He bunched up his napkin, wiped the dregs from his glass, then slid it forward, inviting a refill.

The foreign prince complied, then set down the bottle. His tapered fingers still nursing the goblet that stood all but untouched before him, he broached softly, ‘What news of my current petitions to King Isendon?’