Tales from Hyboria - Tara's Tale Pt. 01

Tara's gray glare hardened on him. "I gather you want something, old man?"

"Be my apprentice and heir," he offered. "I am old, at the peak of my power, and have few years left in life. Yet I can still teach you magics. In time you will outstrip me. Yet I can set you on the road to true mightiness."

Tara cocked her head. "And what's in it for you?"

"I have made a lifetime of blasphemies," he outlaid. "For a handful of magics, I have more stains upon my soul than I can easily count. My demon-waifs have slain victims or driven them mad for blood-money, and more than one haughty lord has owed me their throne, and would worry if I ever call the debt." He sighed. "After all, you, girl, are the closest thing I have to family. Before my shade leaves my corpse, I can only leave you as my legacy upon this earth."

Tara studied him. "Very well, old man." Achingly she heaved herself afoot. "I accept. We shall continue the pretense that I am your daughter." She limped to the downward slope, and toward their wagon.

Later, they rode southward, following the track over the windy heath while the mound slowly shrank behind. Theophobus drove. Tara hunched upon the wagon's seat and shivered chilledly. She drifted in and out of slumber, nodding to their horse's hoofbeats.

"So we're not going back to Ianthe," she observed from their southward trek when once she lifted head.

"Nay," he answered. "Our high time is come, and awaits in Koth."

She eyed him sidewise. "You have this all planned out."

The old man flashed yellow teeth within his beard. "I've had nineteen years to plan, girl. I've not been idle, to both our welfare. I've some gold saved to smooth our way, and also allies. We'll first to Korshemish, but that is only a waystead."

"Whereafter next?" she asked.

"Koth has lately reconquered Yaralet from Turan," he told. "A new prince, a young prince, governs there. He will be eager to prove himself, and also to seek greater power. We will seek him out."

"Very well," said Tara. She made to speak again, but then clutched her belly. She twisted and leaned forward with teeth bared.

Theophobus scowled. "What ails you?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "I'll be fine.

* * *

Ianthe, crown capital of golden Ophir, lay gleaming under a starry sky. Beside the royal palace rose the great temple of Mitra, Bringer of Light. Though greater and holier fanes to the chief god of the Hyborian kingdoms stood elsewhere, non rivalled Ophir's in beauty. Gold-painted icons graced its walls, and statues of angels stood fierce watch, with eyes of blazing jewels.

A rider galloped Ianthe's benighted streets until the temple's side-gate. There he reined his steed, shouted, and banged a staff against. "Open, in Mitra's name! he cried. "I bring word for the high priest!"

With short delay the gates boomed when their bar was lifted. Then they swung open. Heedless of the porters, the rider charged his horse within, through the courtyard, and even up the portico. Only at the temple's golden doors did he dismount, and then run headlong through the hallways.

Within the main fane, where the great statue of Mitra stood, carven as a man tall and bearded, with hand raised in warding blessing, and even the folds of his robe looked real unless one touched and knew them as stone cunningly wrought, the rider waited until a spare elderly man came forth: Ramanthese, high priest of Mitra in Ianthe. At his sight, the rider knelt and drew back his hood, baring an acolyte's shaven pate.

"Peace this night, good Romero," greeted Ramanthes. "You are welcome, though the hour is late. Only dire news could drive you so. Speak. What is it?"

"I bear word from Mount Golamira," told Romero the rider. "Upon the new moon, the hermits there took an oracle. Something ill stirred that night, they read, and named it Kirut."

Ramanthes frowned. "Stand, my young friend," he bade. "Let us withdraw to chambers, where we will give you relief from the long road while we speak."

Within the high priest's chambers, Ramanthes served the acolyte wine by own hand, and a heel of bread. "When I was a boy, the elders spoke ill of Kirut," he remarked. It is a moorland waste where no man dwells. It was told it once marked Acheron's northern marches when that evil empire held sway.

"I doubt not this legend," answered Romero, for such gibes well with this oracle. Also, the seers spoke more, that what stirred upon the new moon stirred before, nineteen years ago."

"Here is a riddle," quoth Ramanthes, scratching his beard. "I wonder," he mused. "But lately we had another word, the day after the new moon, in fact. You have heard of the priests of Asura?"

Romero the messenger nodded, though he scowled and made a hand-sign against the evil eye.

"We hold no business with them, though despite the wives' tales, they do not dabble in demoncraft and such blasphemies. They too warned that something stirred that night, only they gave it name."

"What name, Master?" asked Romero.

"Theophobus, a petty enchanter from Koth, who moved here some years ago, purportedly to flee the strife in that war-cursed nation. Our inquisitors have set their eye on him a few times, though they found no evidence of sorcery. Even so, after the Asurites' word, we sought him out, but found only that he had left Ianthe the month before. His neighbors said he had chosen to return to Koth, along with his daughter."

Romero nodded. "And this Kirut lies southward, along the way to Koth?"

"Aye, though some ways east of Shamar, away off the Road of Kings, though I reckon not so far as could be reached overland."

"With your permission, holy father, I will continue southward, seek Kirut, and thence find where this Theophobus has gone." He lowered head thoughtfully, and then asked: "Of his daughter, what do we know? What age is she?"

"I know little to nothing," said Ramanthes, "though we gathered she is of marriageable age. What do you think?"

"I know not," said Romero. "Just an oddity."