RHONE excerpt

“Kill the girl and return with news of Rhone’s despair.”

            With a sudden flick the dart flew, thin and too fast for even the assassin’s cunning eyes to track. The snuffling boar raised its massive head, cabbage slop dripping from its muzzle and staining its curved ivory tusks green. The sliver protruded from its massive shoulder. The muscle quivered as if irritated by some insect. Unperturbed, the boar returned to its feeding, grunting and snorting with pleasure at finding such a fine meal within the same sunny glade it had meandered through several times earlier today without such good fortune.  

            The assassin glanced at Ducain and swallowed. Nar Sik was into his thirteenth year as one of the black mask; a considerable span for an active participant of his chosen vocation. He had dealt with kings, queens, nobles, generals, filthy rich merchants – all of them wielded considerable power, none had made Nar Sik uneasy. They were powerful, but only human.

            Not so the company he kept this hour.

            Physically, the half-god did not appear especially daunting. Square-jawed, clean-shaven of face and head, slightly taller than the average man – but with musculature of such perfect proportion that a peace-loving sculptor would slit a rival’s throat for the opportunity to liberate the image from red Marsii marble. The garb of infantry commander struck a dramatic but not overbearing impression. A maroon cape hung from a black breastplate inlaid with gold leaf. Leather straps adorned with gold medallions hung from waist to mid thigh, and should have clattered when he walked but instead were silent. Intricately patterned greaves of bronze protected the shins from knee to sandal. A sword was sheathed at the demigod’s side, but Nar Sik thought the weapon less than necessary, as the very air was charged with power, so much so the hair stood straight on the assassin’s arms and back of his neck. Ducain stood as one contained; rare were his gestures, weight shifts, area glances. Nar Sik mused that it would likely be difficult to bring death to one such as this, at least by standard means.

            The argument could be made that these were hardly definitive indicators of godhood, for even mortals can exude power and stand quite still. Indeed, there were no blatant indicators of ethereal qualities – 

            With one telling exception.

            Marsii gods have no irises.

            As half-god, Ducain gazed upon the world with two very different eyes. One was considerably larger, an angular noir that could have been mined from the coldest reaches of space; that seemed to force images into it rather than perform passive observation. The other was a narrow slit that glared at the world with an iris of fierce arctic blue. Both were impenetrable. Nar Sik found the opposition of the two particularly unnerving.

            According to legend, gods normally conceal their identities when walking among mortals. Surely Ducain revealed his true self to strike a chord of awe in the assassin, and he had succeeded. Only now did Nar Sik glimpse some form of expression on Ducain’s features; a flash of excitement in anticipation of the boar’s death.

            With a grunt of confusion the beast dropped to its forelegs. It trembled there for a moment as its hips swayed. For another heartbeat it struggled to raise itself. Coarse fur trembled along its humped back, then the massive head and torso plummeted to the forest floor and remained still. Seconds later the hide swelled and burst open. Legions of tiny bubbles crawled through raw meat and skin, popping and spattering blood and gore on the green underbrush. A gelatinous mass with protruding bones quivered and trembled and bore little resemblance to the boar it had been.

            Nar Sik swore.   

            “That animal weighs more than Rhone’s daughter,” Ducain said, fixing his disturbing gaze upon the assassin.

            Rare expression crossed Nar Sik’s stony features. “It weighs more than I.”

            The demigod’s lip curled in disdain. “A slight assassin … doubtless good for the trade. Slithering from holes and tight spaces to murder your target and then retreat into a crowd of your fellow mortals.” He strode from the concealment of the trees toward the dead boar.

            Nar Sik followed a respectful step behind. “It has its advantages, Holy Father.”

            Ducain wheeled with inhuman speed. Nar Sik was caught up and held at arm’s length, a fist of iron around his throat, sandaled feet kicking air.

            “Insect! Do you deem me weak and caring?”

            “… m-meant only to praise!”

            “You believe the god-maker Himself grips your twig-like neck? Not even Actaeon the Arrogant dares compare himself to The Creator! The only true Holy Father … long since distracted from this miserable fourth planet from the star he bound us to. Address me as such again and the maggots will find your corpse just as appealing as that of the pig.”

            Nar Sik knew nothing of a maker of the gods, and even less on the relation of his own planet to the sun. Mankind as a whole has not made great strides on Pangea Marsii. Assumption and superstition hold sway over studied observation. The sun, moons, and stars areas are little more than shiny ornaments in the skies of a flat stationary world, and the only gods are those residing on high in Machpelah.

            Nar Sik’s concerns were far more immediate as he clasped futilely at the iron beam that was the demigod’s arm. His professional sense told him the hand at his throat could have easily crushed his windpipe or wrung his neck like a rat’s by now. Only the thinnest passage of air kept suffocation at bay.

            “… d-did not wish to offend!” the assassin gasped. “I swear to Actaeon –”

            “Swear to me.”

            “I swear to Ducain!”

            Ducain released his grip.

            The assassin crumpled like a man of straw and stared straight into the eye of the dead boar. Dislodged by vibration and untethered by vein and tendon, the orb abandoned the diminished socket and rolled down the side of the collapsed snout. Momentum carried it into a patch of blood-stained grass where it soon halted and deflated into a moist circle.

            With a cry Nar Sik scrambled to his feet, rubbing his throat and coughing. “P-pardon a lowly ignorant assassin, but with such strength you could take the girl’s life with ease.”

            “Of course. But even such an inconsequential act would leave a trace of my identity that could be detected by my … betters.” The last came steeped with venom. “They could pose questions, the answers for which must be revealed only with the passage of time. The first step was locating the mortal best suited for my task, this Rhone of Iylan.”

            “What can a simple fisherman hope to accomplish for a god?” Nar Sik did not ordinarily think aloud, but for a man to converse with one who strides through the Halls of Actaeon – albeit in a role of subservience to the full gods – was a circumstance of mythical proportion that  upstaged Nar Sik’s normal restraint.

            “What can any mortal hope to accomplish for a god? Suffice it to say Rhone of Iylan has certain qualities he chooses not display, but which I find instrumental to my needs. And that returns us to your task, assassin.”

            They regarded the obscure mass that was the dead boar.

            Nar Sik wondered if even the ravens and vultures would find the boar fit to eat. Probably not, with a poison so potent. Perhaps they would find out too late. It would be interesting to watch them topple like stuffed play toys. “Where does such poison reside? In all my years in the death craft, I have seen nothing so potent.”

            “Craft, eh?” Ducain’s chest and throat rumbled with laughter, far too deeply for a body of perfect proportion. “The fisherman could vouch for the potency of sea snake venom. I skim the surface on a winged lequu, sever them with its claws and gather them up. The fiercest of the serpents are drawn to a chain of islands in the warm climes, as yet undiscovered by simpleton mortals who fear they will sail off the edge of the world.”

            Ducain indicated a wooden stand carved to resemble a stack of human skulls. Nar Sik wondered that he hadn’t noticed it before … and concluded it hadn’t been there. A shaft of weak sunlight fell upon the flat surface, illuminating a dark wooden case small enough to hide in a man’s palm. The assassin opened the case. Inside were three darts, duplicates of the one that felled the boar. The deadly tips were encased in glass that held tiny reservoirs of yellow-green fluid.

            “When the time is at hand, a stone or coin pressed to the glass will free the dart,” Ducain informed him. “Have a care, assassin. A scratch upon your mortal flesh and death’s arrival is measured in heartbeats.”

            “Perhaps an additional supply would be in order … should I miss on the initial attempt.”

            Ducain exhibited two rows of perfect white teeth, and fangs Nar Sik failed to notice earlier. “Your greed is predictable. With your expertise, a single dart should suffice. I will allow you the other two for your own future endeavors.” He tossed a leather bag filled with gold coins in the air. “Half your payment. Succeed in your task and the other half will find its way to your rather lavish dwelling in Gilhorne.”

            The assassin caught the bag but dare not risk insult by looking inside. He bowed, murmured his humble appreciation and slipped the case of darts inside an inner pocket of his shirt. Nar Sik should have asked himself why Ducain would divulge more than was necessary of his intentions to an assassin. Perhaps the demigod was too certain of himself. Perhaps he was assured of Nar Sik’s reputation for never speaking of his work. Or perhaps another method would ensure Nar Sik’s eternal silence. 

            “Some men find little reason to carry on after the death of a loved one,” Nar Sik ventured. “Especially that of a child. This Rhone sounds like a simple man. May I inquire of your Godliness as to why he would do your bidding after undergoing such a tragedy?”

            For a long moment the demigod said nothing. Nar Sik grew uneasy until he understood Ducain’s gaze was fixed on sights well beyond the mortal realm. Rumbling laughter started. It came with the force of boulders crashing down a ravine, far too deep for the size chest the demigod had chosen for himself. Perhaps a giant could generate such bass tones … or a crazed demigod. The forest echoed with it. Even the nearby briar patch, with thorns the size of a man’s thumb, trembled as if in fright. Ducain’s immortal eye smouldered with black fire.

            “Rhone is leagues beyond a normal man. Demon blood flows through his veins. He will perform my bidding, for I offer the impossible. Lured with the soul of his daughter, he will free the cursed titan from the nether world and deliver to me the Vaug Spike. With it this half-god will become the Ultima Thule of Marsii existence!”

 

 

*          *          *

 

 

            Rhone kept working in the skiff. These thugs disguised as Port Authority officers were a recent addition to the dock, the latest heavy-handed move by the Meklarian Empire that Rhone had hoped would content itself with inland matters. Perhaps these three had caused the sense of foreboding he’d had earlier.

             But when had he ever been that fortunate?

            “Hey, boy – we asked if Maghera took a liking to yer blighted pus.”

            “What concern would the gods have for a simple fisherman?” Rhone said, without looking up.

            “Modest, ain’t he? Plainly the Goddess of the Sea smiled on his ass today.”

            “Aye, he has a lot to carry to market, fellas. Too much, I’d say.”

            Rhone gazed evenly at the men.

            One stood with his lips pursed, like he’d been bitten into an unripe eiclom. The other two grinned, various teeth missing from the display.                                                         

            “Don’t you girls have some baking to do?” Rhone said. “I heard there’s a fresh batch of beggars you can harass somewhere … poor slobs used to build houses and barns before your empire came and ushered everyone into the death hives you call Community Dwellings.”

            “Our empire. Listen to him. Almost sounds like he don’t like us Meklars.”

            “It’s a Meklar world, fisherman.”

            “Yeah, a Mek world,” orated the third. “It is what it is.”

            Rhone cocked a brow. “Deep thinking, that.”

            The three glared at Rhone. One spat in Rhone’s direction but the wind drove it back in his face. Rhone laughed.

            “Yeah, who needs beggars when we got you?”

            “And beggars got nothin’. It’s you workin’ folk that pay best.”

            Rhone crossed the plank to the dock while the men laughed. He was glad for their retort, for there was a group of houses in ruins two blocks away that served as a gathering point for the downtrodden and he was afraid he’d actually given the thugs an idea for potential victims. If there was a beggar down here at the docks Rhone would often put him to work – if the man or woman wasn’t too drunk or stoned – in helping unload the skiff. He could not help the beggars beyond a fish or two, but he did not need to send more trouble their way, either. 

            The thug in the middle, the biggest, back-handed the other two in their chests and lumbered forward. He shouldered into Rhone and made like he was scrutinizing the catch. “Where’s our box, fisherman?”

            Rhone half-smiled. The shoulder had been absorbed without so much as a side-step, and the flint in Rhone’s grey eyes sparked with anger for the first time. More than a hint of red flickered over the grey. “No box. Two fish each, no more.”  

            “Be a shame for us to tip your cart into the bay after you load it. Wouldn’t want that little girl o’ yours to go hungry …”

            A dangerous pause as fire kindled in Rhone’s eyes. The air grew thick and still as he struggled to keep rage at bay. A fillet knife hung in its sheath at his hip. Demon blood flooded his muscles, ready to trigger a strike that could open the throats of two of them – the big lout and the next one over – before they skinned their swords free of the scabbards. The third would be able to free his weapon and most likely lunge with it, and then it wouldn’t go well … for the thug. Rhone’s human side resisted the urge to attack.

            For now.   

            The biggest of the three tried to rip the box of fish from Rhone’s grip. Rhone held fast, legs braced and lean muscles taught against the pull of the bigger man, who could move neither the box nor the man holding it.

            “One for each hand,” Rhone said. “Tion will give you enough for them to get drunk on, since you’ll reach his pub before I get there. Two fish each. No more.”

            His tone gave warning.

            A large man with a soldier’s bearing and a sword at his hip strode up the dock. He kept a distance but slowed and stopped at the far rail to watch with mounting interest. In his arm was a broad circular shield, and strapped to the grips was a conical war helmet. He leaned them against a post.

             Rhone jerked the box from the thug, tossed it on the cart and drew the fillet knife. It glinted at his side as he waited for the men to move in a threatening fashion. The thugs joked that a box of twelve fish was too much of a strain to carry anyhow. They took their allotted fish by the tails and lumbered toward Tion’s pub.

            The stranger cut them with his gaze as they sauntered by. Despite their bullying attitude, the thugs gave berth. Except for the helmet and shield, the man was in full battle gear of chain mail hauberk and greaves over his boots. The studded black leather gauntlet of his left hand gripped the scabbard of his long sword and other hovered at the nicked hilt. After the thugs moved on, the man hooked his thumbs in his belt and strode directly toward Rhone.   

            “First the port authority and now a soldier?” Rhone scoffed. “Grab your two and be off.”

            “I’m not interested in your damned fish. Don’t you recognize an old comrade when you see one?”       

            “Where would I know you – wait.” Rhone peered closely at the man. “I know that voice. Your manner of stance … Satho?”

            The man grinned. “A bit heavier now, I know. But what can I say? Body guarding is not like humping it for miles in the infantry, eh? A lot of standing or riding on horseback. You get three or four big meals a day, you know, and all the grog a man can quaff when the shift is over.”

            They grasped forearms and clapped one another’s back.  

            “Four years fighting and trudging through Mard and Sermia together … two more getting our blisters on our asses while on horseback in the Kengalese grasslands. Six years, Rhone! Six years we fought in Drossgurd’s goddamn army.”

            Rhone’s grin faded a notch. “Damn right we did.”

            Satho frowned. “You can tell me to screw myself for it not bein’ my business, but the Rhone I knew would have flayed all three of those dock rats. By Actaeon’s bushy balls, what’s happened to you?”

            Rhone’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the three. “Change in priorities.”

            “My ass has a change in priorities. What’s the story, don’t want undue attention? You layin’ low or something?”

            “Or something.”

            “Hell, these townies don’t even know you were in the army, do they?”

            “I have yet to enlighten them.” Rhone crossed the plank into his skiff. “So what brings an old army buddy to the quiet port of Iylan?”

            “Shippin’ out tomorrow.” He lowered his voice. “I’m quitting Cedanthe, Rhone. Gettin’ away from Drossgurd’s empire.”

            “Sounds like a damn good idea. Where to?”

            “Telleri.”

            “Telleri? I’ve heard good things.”

            “Hell man, if I’d have known you were here I’d have arrived a week earlier so we could get drunk good and proper!”

            “My head still reels from the last time.”

            “Ha! That’s what happens when a lightweight tries to go pint for pint with a real man. By the sacred scrotum of Calthus, we drank the taverns dry, didn’t we?”

            Rhone laughed. The veins bulged over the lean hard muscles of his arms as he retrieved another box of fish from the skiff and laid it on the cart. “And here I had forgotten the gods actually sported genitalia …”

            “You haven’t changed one damn bit! Still got a wit drier than a used-up whore.”

            Rhone grinned. “I’ll thank you to keep your companions out of our discourse.” He made like he was shuddering in disgust. Satho laughed again as Rhone crossed back over the plank and reached for the next box.  

            “Shelaya’s tits, I won’t let you have all the fun!” Satho stomped over the plank and into the boat, where he promptly landed on his backside with a curse.

            “Sure you want to hop on a ship tomorrow, landlegs?” Rhone laughed. 

            “Crapshits! Not only can I out-work you here, I can out-drink you in that pub down there.” Satho bent and grasped a box. No sooner had he started to rise when a cloud of white dust shot up into his face. He sputtered and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “The hell …?”

            “Don’t forget to salt ’em down, big boy.”

            “I’ve a mind to toss your ass into the drink.”

            “Sure you do. Probably should get the makeup off your face first. Everyone’ll think you’re my girlfriend.”

            They laughed and had the boat cleared in minutes. From the dock Rhone tossed a bucket of water onto the wide seats. “That pub is my first customer. I’ll buy you a pint after Tion cheats me of the full price. If it weren’t for me, his customers would get a daily ration of potato soup.” 

            Satho reached into the bucket and splashed the sweat and salt from his face. “I thought the buzzards had made away with you … but here you are, in some armpit of a port town, working off whatever ass you have left! Rhone, the ship departs tomorrow for Telleri. The royals there would prize another man-at-arms to protect them. Throw your shit in a pack and come with me. It’ll be like the old days.”

            Rhone wiped the sweat from his clean-shaven face. “Old days … four weeks training with wooden swords and shields and it was off to the Sermian campaign. Many of the boys from our home towns didn’t make it back.” He stared into the distance for a moment, his features suddenly grim. “You haven’t forgotten how we found ourselves in Drossgurd’s goddamn army in the first place?”

            Right then Satho recognized the fighting man he once knew. He glanced at the dock workers unloading the merchant ships further down the massive dock.

            “Drossgurd can kiss my ass goodbye! He forced us into his goddamn army, but he won’t keep me here in his empire. Hell, I only stayed in Cedanthe this long because it was the only thing I knew. You hang here on the outskirts, maybe it ain’t so bad – but there’s better out there!” He swung a beefy arm over the dull red horizon. “A fresh start, Rhone. Hell man, it’s got to be better than slinging fish for a living.”

            Sweat traced pathways over Rhone’s temples. He swiped at them and smiled. “I have a daughter now, Satho. Enna is almost five. She believes the world is her own … and I’m going keep it that way as long as possible.”

            Satho blinked. “Bring the family! Your daughter will have better prospects in Telleri. They are educated over there, Rhone. You were educated by your parents, but Telleri has schools for boys and girls. Schools paid for by the citizens of the territories. Your Enna could learn a trade. If she didn’t like one, she could choose another! Sure they have a powerful military – Drossgurd hasn’t dared try ’em yet – but they know how to make more than just war. You see the goods coming off that ship … the furniture, the crops, the crates of clothing material … all from Telleri! Your wife will have enough money for good clothes, perhaps some jewelry – ”

            “No wife.”

            “But you have a daughter … the mother is dead?”

            Rhone cleared his throat but the pain remained. “Might as well be. Eryiana warms some nobleman’s sheets in Gilhorne, and can’t be bothered to call upon her own flesh and blood. The pain in Enna’s eyes when she asks about her mother sends a dagger through my heart. To say I misjudged …” He trailed off with a bitter shake of his head.

            “I see. Well, it’s no help, but you’re hardly the first man to misjudge the mind of a woman.”

            “The role of a fool …” Rhone spat into the water.

            “Aye. It’ll take the wind from a good man’s sail.”

            Rhone looked away. A good man … was that what he was, given the blood that runs through his veins? Given the horrors of war he’d experienced? Now he only wanted to be there for his daughter, to give her a decent life. If that was a good man, he was not certain. 

            Sea fowl hovered and squawked in a cacophony on the naked mast of Rhone’s boat, along the rails, bobbing their heads, taking off and hovering and landing, all the time inching closer to his catch. Irritated, Rhone motioned, made a fist and suddenly splayed his fingers. The birds launched into the sky, squawking and flapping while a pillow’s worth of stray feathers spiraled down.

            “Still got some of the old sorcerer in ya, then?”

            “Just some minor stuff.”

            “You don’t do that conjuring thing … those demons …”

            “A lonely kid’s curiosity when there were no human friends to be had.”

            “Imps that would slash the eyes from yer skull, man.”

            Rhone shrugged. “What I do equates to little more than tavern tricks. Don’t need bird shit all over the catch. Brings the price down.”

            “Proper seasoning for these Meklars, however.”

            Rhone laughed.

            Satho watched him keenly for a moment. “Now there’s something you never did much of.”

            “What are you babbling about, big boy?”

            “I don’t think I’ve seen you laugh so easily.”

            “Happens now and then. More so, since Enna. Though the girl can work you harder than a grizzled Sergeant at times.” 

            By the time they finished unloading the skiff, the winds had fallen off. Satho was about to push the fish-laden hand cart when Rhone shoved him away. 

            “I have it, man. You’ve got to lug all that steel. You can pretend to be my bodyguard.”

            “Fair enough.”            

            “Where’s your pack?”

            “Under lock and key on the ship.”

            “Good security, but suppose you soil your undershorts?”

            “What undershorts?”

            “… forgot that about you.” 

            “Say, how much does our man Tion rent a room for?”

            “Are you looking to wench?”

            “Not tonight.”

            “Did it fall off or something?”

            “Hardly. Truth is my ass is sore from the all-day horse ride, and as much I’m ashamed to admit it, the call of the pillow is stronger than parting with six coppers for the bored embrace of a working girl. A terrible thing, getting old.”

            “Then we are both showing our age. I do little but wrestle fishing nets and retire home to Enna. Listen, these tavern keepers don’t want some bare-assed oaf in one of their beds. There’s a room at my hovel for you. It isn’t much, but the place is cool and dry, the terrace looks out over the bay, and the beds have mattresses of cotton laced with powdered Linstrum to discourage even the most determined six-legged intruder.”

            Satho smiled and as he did the scar on his cheek, higher than Rhone’s but on the same side, tugged the corner of his eye downward. “Sounds like heaven. Besides, I’m anxious to meet the little girl who turned a steel-eyed slayer into a bowl of porridge.”