Farmers & Mercenaries Read online

  It never ceases to amaze me how much people need to believe in something.

  This inevitably slowed traffic to a crawl as it crept past the Great Palintium, and Clytus had no time for such.

  Instead, he continued east through the Bazaar coming out at Narian Way.

  Narian, ha! As if this street was paved with gold.

  He passed by the Boulevard of the Gods at an intersection where a large center fountain stood—one of many fountains scattered throughout the city. Water flowed over statues of Mermidians at this one, depicting the sea folk who lived in the waters of the Glonlore Bay. Each one appeared frozen in time, as if caught while playing and splashing in the fountain’s water. Their nakedness, spackled with scales and fins at strategic locations, accentuated the allure of the water creatures.

  Though I would wager that only a handful of people in this city have ever laid eyes on one of the creatures that live in the waters at their very doorstep.

  Continuing down Narian Way, and closer to the gates of the Merchantillian, he found the crowd thinning. With a grin, he noticed that not only did the dress of the people around him improve, so did their smell. Reaching the small gates, he stepped around two people the city watch had stopped. The guards questioned the dingy clad men as to what possible business they had with any merchant of the caliber housed within this particular section of the city. A few of the guards glanced Clytus’ way, though none made any motion to hinder his progress. Passing under the main portcullis, which protected the Merchantillian and separated it from the rest of Mocley, the captain of the merchant guard, Faztilmin, nodded at Clytus from his perch on a tall stool sitting next to a gatehouse door. It still astonished Clytus that the merchants in this section had their own guard separate from the city watch.

  The merchant’s guard—or merkswords, as the locals refer to them—are better trained, that is for sure.

  Inclining his head toward the man, Clytus continued on his path. Since many of the men who employed him owned shops in the Merchantillian, his was a face the merkswords had seen many a time.

  In this section of the city, one could find the more expensive items that might be on one’s shopping list. As he walked its broad, tree-lined and flower edged cobblestone streets, he was greeted here and there by passers-by and shopkeeps he had come to know over the past decade. He waved or nodded to each politely, not pausing in his stride. It pleased him that his reputation was of someone who got the job done, and one that could be trusted as well.

  Passing through the southron gates of the Merchantillian, nodding to the merkswords stationed there, Clytus entered the Sept district. At the next intersection, again with a large ornate fountain—this one depicting the Twelve Gods of Man in various poses atop a mountain, the water cascading down between them like miniature streams to form a lake in the basin—he picked up the tail end of the Boulevard of the Gods. Glancing down the road toward the Palintium, he shook his head at the mass of people who milled about the street. With midday prayers in full swing, he knew he had made the correct decision. That area of the street moved like chilled molasses. Making his way down this road and away from the Palintium, he found himself at the main gates to the Academy.

  The front gates, always closed and locked, sat at the very end of the Boulevard of the Gods. He had never seen its portcullis raised on any occasion. He was not even sure if they could open. Turning southwards, through the small alleys that wound between the homes of workers and servants who made their living off the Academy, he skirted the school’s outer wall. Halting outside the small postern gate used by those who wished to enter the grounds, Clytus reached over and pulled a cord dangling from the right of the gate. Patiently, he stood waiting the arrival of an Academy Guard.

  Unlike the merkswords, these hobbswords who work for the Shapers are merely errand boys and doormen, all prim and proper. The children of wealth found to have no ability with the Essence, yet whose parents wish them to be close to it anyway. Although, the elite guard here is a cut above.

  After a fashion—a suitable enough time to show whoever waited they were not as important as those within—a hobbsword walked out from the gatehouse and strode up to Clytus. This one was a young man, no older than twenty winters. Like all hobbswords, he was smartly dressed. His red and gold stripped tabard with a large yellow starburst on the breast—the symbol of the Shaper’s Order—was spotless, pressed, and fit smooth and snug over his chainmail shirt. Matching breeches, tucked neatly into polished black calf-boots, completed his ensemble. Tall and fair of hair, the hobbswords showed good muscle for his age.

  With long sword worn on the right hip, makes this one a lefty.

  Without thinking, Clytus adjusted his stance to better defend against the off-handed fellow.

  The guard came to a stop just inside the gate. “State your purpose, sir.”

  “I have an appointment with the Council of Elders. My name is Clytus Rillion.” He always hated coming to the Academy.

  With all its layers of formality, it is a wonder the Shapers control anything.

  The guard turned and spoke into a small door off to the side of the gate. “Mir’am Clytus Rillion here to see the Council of Elders by appointment.”

  A youngster around the age of twelve winters walked into view, nodded, and took off at a swift jog along a crushed-gravel path. The boy disappeared into the lush foliage which covered the outer area of the Academy grounds.

  “If you would please clear the gate area, Mir’am Rillion.” The hobbsword gestured to a bench that sat against the outer wall along the street. “You may have a seat over there while you wait.” He took up his post again, ignoring Clytus.

  Stepping away from the gate, Clytus walked to the bench the young man had indicated, sat on one end, and waited—his mind a whirlwind torrent of what he was about to do. Within a few moments, the young boy who had run off with the message hovered in front of him. Clytus cut his eyes to the gate and noticed that it stood open.

  I did not even hear it. I am getting old.

  Clytus raised an eyebrow and inclined his head.

  “The Council of Elders will see you, Mir’am Rillion.” The boy had a country accent that Clytus pegged for one of the northron steads. “If you will permit, sir, I will lead you.” He stretched out a hand showing the gate that stood a pace away.

  I know the way inside better than you, young one.

  Standing, Clytus gave an over-acted motion for the boy to lead on. They stepped through the gate and proceeded down the main path leading to one of the larger buildings. The grounds themselves boasted some of the lushest plant life within the city. Never had Clytus walked these paths and not seen flowers in full bloom, trees dangling plump fruits, and the bushes decked out in brilliant green leaves.

  They put the richest villa gardens to shame. Alas, being able to bend the Essence to your will should afford the Shapers some privileges.

  Tall trees bathed the area in a cooling blanket of shade. Deep green grass covered any location not meticulously planted with shrubbery or flowering plants. The crushed white stone paths laid out for foot traffic were wide and smooth, easy to walk.

  It always strikes me how clean the air is here, so unlike the stench of the rest of the city.

  The building the boy led him to—called the Ques’lian, meaning great hall in the Old tongue—stood three stories high with a mass of ivy growing up its northron face. Grand lead-lined, stained-glass windows ran the length of every level, giving the building a feeling of elegance that escaped other stone buildings of its type. They entered through a set of large wooden double-doors that led up a small flight of steps to an entrance hall area. Several doors pierced each wall and two staircases emptied into the room. Tapestries, most depicting nature scenes in various seasons, hung between the doors. Of the furnishings there were little. A few benches lined the walls. Lit braziers stood in strategic places, casting light around
the room. A small desk and chair took up one corner. As with every time Clytus had been here, an attendant sat at the desk. This day, a young man in a gray robe sat behind it. The gray robe he wore, with a small yellow starburst on the breast, marked him as an Initiate of the Academy. The guide-boy walked up to the desk and waited.

  The Initiate did not pause in his reading at first. Finally, he looked up and eyed the young boy in front of him. “Yes?”

  “Mir’am Rillion to see the Council of Elders by marked appointment as confirmed by Initiate Wirlane.” The boy did not relax from his formal stance.

  “My thanks, you may return to your post.” At a wave of the Initiate’s hand, the guide-boy bowed with a nod, turned, and marched out of the reception area. “Mir’am Rillion, please have a seat, the Council of Elders knows of your arrival and sends word they will see you shortly.” The Initiate smiled then buried his nose back in his book, effectively dismissing Clytus.

  Arrogant, even before they learn to control their gift.

  Clytus walked across the room toward the row of benches. Before he had a chance to sit, a familiar voice called out from behind him. “Master Rillion, how nice to see you again.”

  Turning, he faced the elderly man descending the staircase. A warmth sprang in Clytus that his face reflected. Sier Felstar Lysentoc approached him, dressed in his usual deep-blue silk robe. Fringed with golden starbursts around the cuffs and hem, the robe marked the man as a Master Shaper. His long, white hair raced down his back in a vain attempt to catch up to the even longer gray-white beard flowing down his chest. Clytus had no idea how old the Sier was, yet his wrinkled, age-spotted hands and face betrayed the straight back and walk of a younger man.

  Sier Lysentoc crossed the chamber with purposeful strides and clasped Clytus’ outstretched hand. “I feared you had already left before I could bid you well on your journey.” The old Sier held his hand with a fatherly grace.

  “Nix, Sier Lysentoc. I was going to come see you after I met with the Council. How is your health this fine spring day?”

  “Better, my thanks to you.” Felstar motioned toward the benches. “Please, let an old man sit with you while you wait.”

  “I would be honored.” Both men took a seat. “Why do I sense this meeting of ours is no accident?” Clytus glanced around the room to insure no other could overhear their conversation.

  “How clever you are, for a simple Tat’Sujen.” The title, though the Sier barely whispered it, made Clytus flinch and glance around the room once more. Just the mere mention of Tat’Sujen could be deadly if spoken in the wrong ear. Felstar’s smile took any sting from his words, however. “I wanted to speak with you before you went inside.” The old Sier lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Those fool Elders will ask you for something, something you are forbidden to accept by your Order.” He stressed the last word, and Clytus knew the Sier would not repeat the Tat’Sujen title even if they could not be overheard.

  “My son—” Clytus stopped speaking when the old man raised a hand and pressed his fingers to Clytus’ lips.

  “We have little time, friend. You will understand when you hear the Council’s offer. It appalls me that they would even ask this of you. And I did protest. Alas, those old fools on the Council never bother to heed my words. They, like most Shapers, do not believe in the Foretelling, as it has nothing to do with Melding the Essence. I do not blame them for this. So many charlatans have proclaimed to have it. Know this, Clytus, my good friend, the men in that room are the most dangerous ever appointed to the Council. Alas, that is no concern of yours. You must forgive an old man’s rants.”

  “What I have come to say is this—you must accept their terms. You have my word that you will not have to fulfill them.” Felstar sat back.

  Clytus’ insides tightened and bile rose in his throat. “Sier, as you say, I am,”—he could not help himself and glanced around the room once more to insure their privacy remained secure—“Tat’Sujen. You may be the only person outside of our Order in all of Mocley who knows my Order even exists. Just you knowing could end your life. Yet, you know some of the truth to our Order. You know I cannot break a vow once given. If they ask a service forbidden to me—if I accept, I must keep to my word. If I cannot…”

  The Sier simply smiled and patted Clytus’ hand once more. “My old friend, I know your Order better than you think. And yes, I know what you must do. You know I have always been true to my word as well, although I have never thought you truly believed in my Foretelling.” He raised a hand to forestall Clytus’ rebuttal once more. “Hear me, there is even less time now. They are about to call you in. The Council will offer something they think will tie you to them. Something they will not understand that you cannot agree to. To this thing, you must agree! If you do, you have my word you will not have to fulfill this vow, and your son, Sindian, shall live. If you deny them, Sindian will die. These two paths I have seen clearly.”

  Sier Lysentoc was correct. Clytus was unsure if he truly believed in Foretellings. Yet, hearing his old friend speak of Sindian’s death sent a wave of agony through Clytus’ very core.

  “Mir’am Rillion?” The Initiate’s voice rang out across the room. “The Council of Elders is ready for you now.”

  Clytus nodded to the boy before returning his attention to Felstar. “Sier, as always, you have given me much to think on. I will take your words to heart.” Rising to his feet, he helped the old man stand.

  “I have cherished your friendship. I will miss it most of all.” Sadness coated Felstar’s voice.

  This made Clytus chuckle. “I shall only be gone for a few moons—” He meant to say more. The look of sadness in the old Siers eyes stopped him. A wave of resolve rippled through him. Adopting a more formal tone, he inclined his head. “I am grateful, Sier Lysentoc. For your council, as well as your friendship. I shall miss these as well. Alas, I will pay what needs be paid, if it means my son shall live.”

  The two men shook hands once more, this time with great intention. Clytus turned and stalked to the door leading to the audience chamber he had visited so many times before, as if the Headsman himself waited within. He did not look back at his friend.

  I will pay what needs be paid!

  The audience chamber was not a large room. On a center dais at its far end rested a curved, lacquered, redwood table, beautiful in its simplicity. Behind this sat seven high-backed chairs, each made to match the table, and each holding one member of the Council of Elders of the Shaper’s Order. No other furniture occupied the room. Crossing the chamber, Clytus came to a stop a pace short of the table and eyed the men who sat across from him. The seven men occupying the chairs were all old. Each he knew by name, most he thought were good men. All wore the same deep-blue silken robes trimmed in the golden starbursts of their Order.

  Master Shapers all.

  Yet each also wore a large, golden sun medallion hanging from a gold chain around their neck.

  Leaders of an Order that stretches to almost every corner of the Plane.

  Some wore beards, others clean-shaven. All were men of great power here within Mocley.

  The Proctor of Mocley may think he has power—with command of the city guard, outrider patrols and naval fleet—yet it is these seven men who truly rule this city, if not Ro’Arith entirely.

  “Mir’am Rillion.” Arthimius Blanch, the Grand Elder, sat in the centermost chair looking at Clytus with withered, baggy eyes. “You have made your preparations I may assume?”

  “I have, Grand Elder.” Clytus found that proper etiquette with this group worked better than not.

  “And when do you plan to leave?”

  “On the morrow, if you have the device I need.”

  “We have it.”

  None of the men made a summons, yet a side door opened. A boy dressed in an Initiate robe entered carrying a leather pack, which he offered to Clytus. The Initiate left by
the same door while Clytus opened the pouch.

  “The apparatus is quite simple to use. Insert it into the beast and it will extract the blood automatically. It will also keep the blood fresh for your journey home. Once the blood of the Drakon is in our possession, we will then be able to save your son from his illness.”

  Closing the pack, he returned his attention back to the Shapers. “My thanks to you, Grand Elder.” He pivoted to exit through the door he had entered by.

  “Mir’am Rillion, we have not yet agreed to a price.”

  His heart sank and his mind reeled.

  What is the price going to be that I cannot agree to?

  Turning back, he faced the Council. “My apologies, I am anxious to set upon my task.”

  “Your son has Dispaxion, with less than one season to live, I understand.” Clytus forced his jaw to relax—it tensed at the mention of his son. “To cure the boy we need a very rare component, the blood of a Drakon, which is Essence infused.” The Grand Elder recited this as if reading it from a script.

  Again with the formalities! You say this every time we meet old man. As if I need the reminder that my son has little life left to live!

  “You are to provide this blood, as we have no means to retrieve it ourselves. Even with this ingredient, the risk to those who will heal your son is great. A Shaper himself may die from the feedback the Essence could unleash during the Melding that is required to cure this illness. Not to mention, it will take over a tenday to Meld the Essence in the boy and rid him of the sickness. This risk will be shared by the eight Shapers it will require to accomplish the Meld.” Arthimius leaned forward in his chair. “For this we require an equally valuable payment.”

  He is like a wolf standing over a cornered hare.

  “I have already told you, Grand Elder, however much narian it takes, I will pay.” Clytus knew by the feeling inside him, he was not going to like the next few moments of his life. It was a feeling that he had had many times before. A feeling that usually ended with something sharp piercing a part of his body that he would rather not have pierced.