Red Tsonia & The Witch In The Dark

"I found her alone and feral on the streets of Thelyria. She was beautiful even then, caked in soot and grime, but with an intensity of expression that I had to capture. It took many days to win her trust before she'd sit still for me... You were much easier to convince."

Petruch smiled.

"By the time I finished that first hasty portrait, I realized that I couldn't simply loose her back into the warrens of the city. I told myself there were still facets of her beauty left undrawn, and that I alone should be the one to capture them. But in truth, I think I knew even then how badly she needed a companion, steady and faithful, to guide her path."

Outside the tent, the braying and hissing of pack animals could be heard as the caravan hands prepared them for travel. The flump of collapsing tents followed the bang of hammers loosening stakes and an air of activity beyond the fabric walls increased with each passing moment.

"A sad story," Petruch concluded as he reluctantly rose and donned his robe. "I do not envy you the path you walk, Joras. I wish our paths could be one and the same for a time, for I'd like to know you better. I'm glad of the night we had, but I'm afraid it has come to an end."

"Yes," agreed Joras, slipping into his well-worn traveling garb. Petruch threw open the tent flap to reveal the gray light of pre-dawn brushed across the horizon. "I truly hope our paths will cross again one day."

As he made his way into the slightly more permanent parts of town, Joras took one last look over his shoulder. He saw Petruch teaching the boy how to bridle a camel, and he was glad to have the sketch of the man and the bright memory that went with it. The path ahead was likely to be dark, and bright memories would be hard to come by. Tsonia was injured for the first time since he'd known her. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he very much doubted the healing would be pleasant. Demon-kissers were not known to share their ken graciously.

But first he had to find Tsonia again. And Tsonia would be at Brigitta's—assuming Brigitta was still around.

***

Shaskar buried his face in the silken gown the messenger had brought and inhaled deeply. The scent emanating from the gem-studded garment was strong and familiar. The robe's last wearer had been a woman and one with tainted blood no less. Finding such a specimen in The Cairn would be easy. Shaskar raised his head. At the edge of a panic, a bare-breasted servant sent by DuFrain hovered on the threshold to his den clutching a guttering candle that cast weird shadows across the ebon walls. The girl had nothing to fear, too starved and gaunt to be at all appetizing. Shaskar remembered what was expected of him, but he relished her visage of dread in the candle light.

"Go. Tell DuFrain she will be dead by sundown."

The servant fled, her naked feet pattering on the black stone floor of the Warrens like hard winter rain. The garment beckoned and Shaskar inhaled greedily. This one... she would be most appetizing indeed! Rare flickers of excitement flushed his haggard body and his right arm, the tainted one, twitched expectantly, the scales covering his malformed limb hissing against each other in time to his hungry breathing.

Shaskar picked up his blades, secreting each reverently about his sinewy frame, hidden but quickly accessible. He wound his tattered cloak around his body to hide his hideous arm and left for the surface. There were only a few places where weary travelers and merchants congregated and by visiting each of them, there was a good chance he might find his quarry before the sun had climbed past the apex of the ziggurat.

Even in the early morning hours, "Brigitta's" saw stiff business. Merchants eager to make an early start mingled with guards coming off their late shifts, trusted slaves lucky enough to be afforded a moment of leisure, and those travelers unlucky enough to spend another day amidst the squalor and oppression of the inverted quarry.

The tavern was built upon the ruins of another, which had been torn down years ago, leaving only four rough corners of misshapen masonry connected by ropes and tarps and the occasional rug. Wood was more valued than water in The Cairn and so most furniture was assembled of cheap clay bricks made by apprentices who hoped someday to be skilled enough to form the ebony and emerald grist mined from the ancient temple thereby to earn the scant privilege that came with such skill. A counter ran along the short side of the barroom behind which sat barrels full of thin wine and poor beer. Simple stacks of brick formed scattered tables, around which smaller stacks served as chairs and benches, some even adorned with thin and threadbare cushions.

At the counter, talking with the ample-breasted, blonde proprietress, leaned a tall, red-haired woman barely garbed in tattered chain armor. Underneath the gleaming rings, Shaskar noticed the wintry white of a fresh bandage. Would it be this easy?

Nobody paid Shaskar any heed as he made his way through the stinking throng of motley patrons hoping for succor in their tankards. He wasn't the only one wrapped in a cowled cloak and his wasn't the only uneven gait to hobble through the door. Few quarrymen made it any length of time without suffering injuries and as long as they had any able limbs, they were put to work. Among the early-morning detritus of the village, he was almost invisible and made his way towards the counter unaccosted.

Now, less than an arm's length behind the redhead, he inhaled slowly, taking careful time to consider each of the mingled scents passing through his nostrils. The stench of humanity was overpowering, but he had grown accustomed to the stink, just as everyone else had become accustomed to the constant snapping of whips and wailing of tortured slaves. He concentrated on the subtler aromas, those different from The Cairn's normal fetor, and was rewarded with a scent he recognized. The traces of barely controlled lust were much fainter than on the garment, but the whiff of the demon blood was so close to the woman.

Yes. She was the prey the Overseer had sicced him upon, the quarry to course and slay. With practiced nonchalance, Shaskar sidled up closer to the woman, within reach of his arm, and then closer still. It would be so easy to slip a blade into her neck, between the vertebrae and sever her spine, to watch her body collapse beneath her as her eyes stared in helpless terror until they saw no more. But even in this fetid backwater slave pit, Shaskar could not kill with such audacity in front of so many witnesses. He feared no retribution; he was on the Overseer's task after all. But recognition and infamy were to be avoided among The Cairn's small populace.

"Ah, Tsonia! In your cups already, I see!" Someone elbowed past Shaskar, a Thelyrian reeking of sweat and recently spilled seed. He claimed the space next to the redhead with a welcome greeting from the hostess.

Shaskar shrunk away from the counter and sat upon the end of a long brick bench that served a table ringed by four Vizangian mercenaries, clad in their strange pointed helmets and tasseled armor. Two of the men molested a naked whore trapped between them on the bench, alternately feeding her scraps of food and fondling her curves and nethers. The other two sat opposite, watching with leering grins on their mustachioed faces, one hand on their drinks, the other under their kilts. They were too preoccupied to be bothered by Shaskar who focused his attention on the conversation between the red-haired woman and her companion.

When the woman the northerner had called 'Tsonia' spoke Amalthra's name in a hushed whisper, Shaskar perked up. Why would such a beauty seek out the Witch of the Warrens? To remove the curse of her demon blood? No, the woman was far too convivial and lighthearted; she did not bear her tainted blood as a curse. It must be to do with the bandaged shoulder then. Yes, she bore a wound that didn't heal. "How could such a wound be inflicted on the tainted?" Shaskar wondered, absent-mindedly rubbing his hidden arm. He'd be very interested to know such things.

This was an especially lucky roll of the bones, and the pieces of a daring plan fell into place. Once she descended into the Warrens, tracking and ambushing his wary prey would be onerous at the least—unless Shaskar were to guide her! But first he'd have to win her trust. If he could judge her mettle as a foe at the same time, so much the better. And if the bones truly favored him today, his task might be done without his effort at all, though his curiosity would go unsatisfied.

Slowly, as not to draw unwanted attention to his movements, his left hand plucked a pea-sized pellet from his pouch, a pill Amalthra had prepared for him in exchange for his services some months back. He slipped it between his lips and chewed slowly, until the chalky tablet had reacted with his spit. A sweet-smelling froth had formed in his mouth and Shaskar turned to his foreign table-mates and exhaled a long, slow breath. A cloud of saccharine mist engulfed the Vizangians and their whore. There was a bit of coughing and there were befuddled gazes telling Shaskar that the witch's alchemy still held its potency. Their judgment should be clouded long enough for Shaskar's needs.

He leaned against the closest Vizangian and guided the man's chin with his left hand.

"Do you see that fire-haired beauty over there?" he rasped into the Vizangian's ear. An eager nod. Shaskar grinned viciously. "She just asked the scrawny northerner why Vizangian dicks always smell of goat shit."

There was a horrible grinding of teeth before Shaskar was pushed off the bench by the Vizangian. The others looked at their companion in surprise, but when the enraged man bellowed something in their hoarse language and drew his long, curved blade, the others followed suit, forgetting their naked plaything, and elbowed their way towards the counter.

Shaskar's quarry turned her attention toward the commotion just in time to earn a mouthful of phlegm to her face, followed by an enraged war cry and a vicious slash with the saber. To Shaskar's surprise, she managed to evade the attack by dropping her weight and leaving the blade to clang harmlessly against the brick counter in a shower of sparks. Without taking time to wipe the glob of spit off her cheek, the woman came to her feet, dagger in hand. A wise choice, Shaskar decided, given the tight confines of the tavern.

One of the Vizangians' backhanded swipes caught an off-duty caravan guard, shattering his tankard and nearly taking his hand off. Snarling, the guard grabbed the Vizangian by the shoulder and rammed the bottom half of his shattered vessel into the man's face. Instead of dropping him, the attack only seemed to make the Vizangian madder. He plowed his shoulder into the guard's abdomen and drove him backwards into a cluster of rowdy laborers playing at dice with their meager savings.

The seemingly unprovoked attack drew in others, inspired to reckless courage by their libations. Embittered slaves, frustrated guardsmen, and unlucky merchants were all too happy to have an excuse to vent their misery with violence and the tavern was quickly a riot.

"If you need to brawl, take it outside!" Brigitta tried to yell over the shouting, but her voice was lost in the cacophony of steel on steel as blades met and were parried. Shaskar drew a blade and joined in the chaos with glee, assailing men at random, but always with an eye towards his true target.

Trapped between the masonry counter and three angry Vizangians, the woman held her own, dodging, parrying, using her scant armor to best effect, but despite her obvious skill at arms, she was running out of room fast and favoring her wounded shoulder. Her companion, using a brass serving tray as a shield, had sought refuge behind the counter and cowered in the bottleneck, evading an impaling thrust by sheer luck, but earning a wide gash in his cloak for his trouble.

Shaskar moved through the fray towards the pair, brandishing his curved dagger in his left hand. He slid behind a Vizangian and plunged the weapon into the man's neck from behind, severing muscle, tendons, and sinew. Clutching the gaping wound, the mercenary dropped to his knees. The next man fell when the redhead drove her dagger into his gut with both hands, viciously twisting the blade before ripping it free in a crimson arc. Howling in agony, the Vizangian fell to the ground.

A tall, blonde Gysian, his rough tunic packed tight with muscle, stepped into the hole where the Vizangian had fallen and grabbed Shaskar's quarry from behind, pinning the red-haired warrior's arms and grinding his loins against her ass with a lusty gleam in his eye. She kicked futilely and slammed her head against his powerful chest, but he merely bellowed good-heartedly and intensified his antics.

Shaskar saw his opportunity, and weighed his curiosity about the woman's business with Amalthra against the ease of completing his task quickly, here in the anonymous chaos of the brawl.

He decided on expedience, reached under his cloak and pulled free a well-balanced throwing knife. It cut the air with a hiss from his outstretched fingers just as the woman's sandals found the edge of the brick bar and shoved, toppling her captor backwards. The blade, meant for her soft temple, missed her nose by the breadth of a palm. The Gysian released his grip to catch his fall and the woman, having seen his failed attack, wheeled on Shaskar with fiery murder in her eyes.

This Tsonia was clearly a foe to be reckoned with. Engaging her in a duel so publicly would draw attention—attention an assassin such as he could ill afford. If she could not be killed expeditiously, then perhaps he would indulge his curiosity after all. Shaskar twisted his face into a grimace of contrition, his hands spread open, pleading forgiveness for his errant blade.

The Gysian giant reached for the woman's ankle, laughing in his own native tongue. Shaskar made his decision. With a practiced motion, his fingers found another throwing knife and the blade found the brute's eye. With a gasp of surprise, the Gysian released his iron grip and collapsed dead, as the woman's look of fury shifted to comprehension and then a nod of gratitude.

"Your beauty is a prize that many would claim, m'Lady," Shaskar growled as he drew up beside her. "Your cunning and skill serve you well, but best you begone before chance smiles on another." He used his jambiya to gash one of the canvas wall tarps that enclosed the tavern and held the breach open to the daylight beyond. The redhead grabbed her companion by the scruff of his cloak, hauled him over the bar, and shoved him towards the makeshift exit before ducking through herself.

Shaskar followed close on her heels. He had not expected her to bring the cowardly Thelyrian along. This was a complication. Cowards are unpredictable; they tend to discover their courage at the most inopportune times. Shaskar would have to dispose of the northerner before he could set upon his quarry.

From nearby, he heard the clamor of alarm bells and shouts for the guards, but those were less an immediate concern than the dagger pressed under his chin.

"My thanks for your assistance, but who are you?" the redhead snapped, with her thumb jammed in the crook of his elbow, preventing him from bringing his own knife to bear in defense.

"A humble man with no love for Vizangians," Shaskar answered in his gravelly accent. "You dispatched them and I am grateful. If you would avoid the guardsmen, I can lead you away by paths they won't pursue."

The woman nodded, shook the gore from her blade, then sheathed the weapon. Offering his most sincere smile in thanks, Shaskar lowered his hood and felt the first hot rays of the sun on his bald scalp. He guided them through a throng of windswept market stalls which shielded them from the guards' most likely vantage points.

"You say you have no love for the Vizangians," the northerner noted as he followed near behind with a smug tone that Shaskar immediately detested. "Yet I saw you sitting with them just before they recognized Tsonia,"

"I lost my arm fighting Vizangians and then moldered in their dungeons for over a year," Shaskar explained, glancing back over his bad shoulder, his devious mind spinning out a tale from a bit of truth. "But the dogs hired me as translator and to guide them down beneath The Cairn. I abhor them, but coin is hard to come by, and so I took the work."

"You know the Warrens beneath the ziggurat?" This was Tsonia, who asked from the back of the procession where she kept close watch on their retreat. Shaskar suppressed a grin as she snapped at the bait he had dangled.

"The only folk who know the Warrens better than I scarcely pass for human and fear the light of day," Shaskar answered.

"Do you know the lair of the witch Amalthra?"

"Amalthra does not receive guests graciously, m'Lady. The way is long and dark and dangerous... But I know it."

"And how much coin would it take to hire you for such a journey?"

A fee was quickly agreed upon and the northerner, called Joras, counted out half the sum from a heavy purse, the balance to be paid on their safe return. There would be no safe return, but Shaskar looked forward to claiming the entire coin bag for himself anyway, and decided the priggish man would live just long enough to see him take it, but not a minute longer.

"Do you have a name, friend?" Joras asked, slipping his pouch back into the sleeve of his tunic.

"I am called Shaskar by those who would bother, and I am your most humble servant." He bowed low enough to conceal the wicked grin he allowed himself.

***

Tsonia had never been so close to the base of the colossal antediluvian monument before. She had never appreciated the scale of each massive block that formed the stepped tiers of the ziggurat. Each stone of green veined obsidian was nearly five men tall and twice as wide. She could not count the tiers that climbed towards the sky, but shielding her eyes she could make out the cranes and winches that raised slaves to the top and lowered broken scree and gravel to the bottom. The lowest tier might have encompassed the whole of Thelyria, and Tsonia was glad to have the crippled Shaskar along as their guide.

He led them to the southern face, where a mighty cascade of water poured down from the third tier with such thunderous force they had to shout to be heard above the clamor.

"The wellspring is the only way in or out, m'Lady," Shaskar yelled between cupped hands, "but soon enough there are side passages that take us away from the water."

"Wellspring?" Joras grimaced incredulously, "I've seen tidal waves with less force! Where does all of this water come from?"

"None know, m'Lord. The source has never been traced."

The wellspring, as Shaskar called it, emptied into a wide lake that served the people, the pack animals, the herds, and the brickmakers. The hectic shoreline was wild with activity. Tsonia had never sought out The Cairn's water supply before, always preferring to take her refreshment as beer or wine, but from her travels through the wastes, she knew this was the only sweet water for many days in any direction. It made sense that the ancient race of architects who had erected the ziggurat would build it to control the water.

South from The Cairn, a deep canyon ran to the ocean, surely once carved by the river the temple unleashed. Today, no more than a muddy trickle reached the sea, so much was taken by the brickmakers to fill the Green Cities' demand for their fashionable wares.

"Will the guards let us pass?" Tsonia asked, recalling Ivor's stance on demon worship as they clambered up the sand and rubble ramp towards the torrent's outlet.