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  Third Chronicle of the Shaman:

  Citadel

  Martin Ash

  Also by Martin Ash

  Moonblood (First Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Heart of Shadows (Second Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Enchantment’s Reach (Volumes I – VI)

  Copyright ©2017 by Martin Ash. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, transferred, leased, licensed, reproduced or publicly performed or used in any way without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Copyright©2017 Outside Publishing & Martin Ash

  Third Chronicle of the Shaman:

  CITADEL

  One

  MY INITIAL REACTION UPON hearing news of my passage through a place I had not been was one of curiosity mingled with slight concern, but I had no reason at that time to suspect anything particularly sinister.

  It was disconcerting and a little unsettling to learn soon after that I had in fact been accused of heinous crimes there. But to discover subsequently that I had been arrested, tried, found guilty of said crimes and executed left me with a unique and haunting sense of unease. After all, I could demonstrate beyond any shadow of a doubt that this was not the case, for here I was, palpable and conscious, and there I quite definitely had not been.

  Yet the reports, reaching me in the manner they did, commanded belief, and in one case emanated from a source I considered wholly reliable.

  This is not to say that I had never visited Anxau. I had, on numerous occasions. It is a wild and largely inhospitable land, lying far to the west of Khimmur, beyond the shimmering grassy Urvysh Plains. Bounded to the north by the Great White River, its southern perimeter lies in the arid dustlands of the Endless Desert, merging unremarkably into those vast wastes like woodsmoke into morning mist.

  Sparsely populated in the main, Anxau is home to a motley of rude peasant stock, rough, ill-mannered mountain types, erstwhile nomadic wanderers and scabrous settlers from afar. They are an unruly lot, given to superstition and conflict and, no matter their backgrounds, tend to be leery of foreigners. On the whole, Anxau is considered a risky place in which to travel.

  An extension of the major international trade route, Wetlan’s Way, spans the country, and on this Anxau’s fledgling capital, Dhaout, had congealed. A sprawling ramshackle city, uncoordinated, riddled with petty intrigue and corruption, it was held under shifting sway at the time of which I write by a trio of upstart rival lordlets. Here were no-goods, scoundrels and thieves in their swarms. ‘Trust no one’ would have been an apt motto for this place. Dhaout was a rat-hole, make no mistake - but from time to time I’d done good business there.

  Though not in recent months.

  This is what intrigued me. All accounts made it more than plain that I’d been seen there just weeks earlier. And, as I was to learn, my arrest, trial and appallingly cruel death had taken place only days before the first report filtered through to me.

  Given the choice, I would have dismissed it as a joke. Indeed,

  I tried, telling myself that it was of no importance. But circumstances quickly contrived to persuade me otherwise, in ways that I could hardly ignore. My nature is such that, once my curiosity is aroused, I become bound to pursue a matter through to its resolution, satisfactory or otherwise. Thus a point was reached where I could do little but investigate for myself those queer rumours from afar.

  I would come to regret this. Many times I would berate my decision to leave Khimmur for Anxau and search out the truth behind the hearsay. In fact I would wish all manner of things before the business was done. So much was now to be decided by my actions. I’m not keen at any time to risk my life if it can be avoided but, I would quickly learn, much, much more than my life was at stake here. The road to Anxau and beyond was a deception-ridden trail, leading me to terrors and wonders I could scarcely have imagined and into perhaps the strangest mystery I would ever encounter. No, by choice I would not have gone - but there is my excuse: in the end I had no choice.

  But I’ve leapt ahead of myself - a fitting turn of phrase, as it happens, conjuring as it does an image of I jumping out of me, perhaps taking a few brief steps then turning back to gaze upon myself. Bewildered, unnerved, seeing myself standing there and wondering: ‘Which one am I? How can I be sure?’

  Let me retrace my steps. I shall describe the beginning of this strange affair, at least as I experienced it. I could not see it at the time, but it started with a note delivered to me at my warehouse on Hon-Hiaita wharf.

  The messenger was a boy, unknown to me. He entered with a cocky gait, identified me without hesitation, placed the stiff, sealed paper in my hand, accepted the coin I held out, and was gone. I withdrew to my office and prised open the seal.

  ‘Bring it tomorrow. We can wait no longer.

  Sermilio’

  It meant nothing to me.

  I looked at the reverse, imagining it to be a mistaken delivery. But no, the words ‘Master R. Dinbig, Grand Merchant, Hon-Hiaita, Khimmur’ were clearly written there in the same hand that had penned the message. I scanned the message again. Bring what? Who was it who was so pressed? The name, Sermilio, was unfamiliar.

  There was one other item on the page. A symbol or emblem of some kind, placed after and beneath the name ‘Sermilio’ and formed in the same ink. It consisted of a bulbous stem supporting two curving outstretched limbs, their tips downturning. A solid ovular form rested within the crutch of the limbs. Somewhat thus:

  I stepped quickly outside, wanting to recall the lad who had brought the note. It was mid-morning. The sun glittered off the harbour waters and the cobbles dampened by earlier rain. A long low cog was made fast to the wharfside, several longshoremen working to unload its cargo. They sang in rhythm as they hefted bulging sacks and sealed wooden crates and bore them in file to their respective storerooms.

  I scanned the harbourside. A few folk could be seen about the shops and taverns, some clearing the debris of the previous night’s excesses from forecourts and entrances, others making for or coming from unknown assignations. Mange-ridden cats skulked around fishing-boats moored further along the quayside. Somewhere, not so very far away, I heard a baby cry.

  Hon-Hiaita’s cluttered rooftops scaled away into the distance towards the inclinations of Far Prospects and the Gell. King Gastlan Fireheart’s great palace rose majestically upon the Gell’s sheer granite height, a mighty sentinel above the town, surveying the meadows, the rugged hills and forests beyond and the great inland sea of Lake Hiaita which lapped, or oftimes foamed and broiled, at its bedded feet.

  For a moment I savoured the mingling multitude of smells borne on the cool moist air: oil, grease, water, mud, weed, the damp, cleated boards of boats, thick hemp rope and netting, fish, ale, grain, the waft of warm bread and sizzling meats, the sweat of men and animals, woodsmoke from the Gell, faint traces of a score of different perfumes imported from lands near and far. It felt good, just then, to be alive.

  My eyes fell upon a merchant some distance off in conversation with a pair of slouching militia-men. Beyond them a horse-drawn cart rattled slowly up Mags Urc’t, Hon-Hiaita’s main thoroughfare, towards the great Sharmanian Gate. A tethered ass waited patiently beneath an arch as two men haggled over what it was to carry. All this and much more, but no sign of my young messenger.

  I returned indoors and called my assistant, Minyon, to me, thinking that he had perhaps made some arrangement in regard to the sale of my goods of which I had not yet been informed. But upon seeing the message he declared ignorance.

  ‘Ah, well, whatever it is he wants, this Sermilio, he is no
t going to get it. At least, not today. Perhaps tomorrow, in his disappointment, he will show his face and explain the mystery.’

  I folded the paper and pushed in into a pocket inside my robe, and for the moment forgot about the episode.

  That evening I took off to the taverns around the harbourside, in particular to The Laughing Mariner, a favoured haunt of diverse folk and a place where information flows as readily as wine - for those with the knowledge and means to elicit it. I was keen to rendezvous with a Sirroman silk merchant named Sorias Bon who had arrived in Hon-Hiaita that afternoon with four wagons laden with silks from the far south. I knew well that ladies in Hon-Hiaita and Mulante, Khimmur’s second city, would pay handsomely for such fineries, and was confident, too, that with a little haggling and smart trade I might make a profit in lands to the north as well.

  Sorias Bon and I ate and drank to near-excess and eventually arrived at terms pleasing to us both. Bon then expressed a desire for entertainment and I, being well acquainted with the pleasure houses of Hon-Hiaita and wishing at the same time to keep him from the company of my business rivals, offered to act as guide. He readily accepted and we prepared to leave.

  There was a fellow I had noticed earlier in the common- room. He was an ill-dressed, unwashed varlet with a very mobile tankard who gave the impression of having drunk far more than was good for him. For the last couple of minutes he had been sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor among the sawdust and slops.

  I recognized him. He was called Buel, known as Buel the Vile. I knew him for what he was - at least to some degree. When I first entered he had caught my eye and given me a sly wink. I had returned him a measured glance. In the company of the Sirroman merchant, Bon, I was not especially keen to have contact with one such as Buel. But as we made for the door Buel rolled towards us. Before I could sidestep him he had wrapped an arm around my shin and hauled himself to sitting.

  ‘Mazhter Dinbig! You are back already! ‘ave you been changing your plans?’

  I frowned down at him, in puzzlement rather than annoyance. His face was smudged with grime, the dark hair and beard matted and unkempt. He grinned, showing blackened teeth.

  ‘Back?’ I asked. I had in fact returned the previous day from a week-long trip to Mulante. But I could see no reason why it should have been of interest to Buel. ‘Yes, I believe I am. But to what plans do you refer?’

  ‘You shaid you did not exzhtec—exshpect to return to Khim-mur in the near future.’

  ‘I said? When was this?’

  ‘Two weeksh passht.’

  I studied him curiously for a moment, then raised a scented handkerchief to my nose as I crouched at his side. Buel’s tolerance of his condition never ceased to amaze me, but I knew better than to dismiss him as feeble-minded. ‘And where?’

  ‘Dhaout, Mashter Dinbig.’

  ‘Dhaout? In Anxau?’

  Buel nodded. There was a gleam of keen intelligence in his eyes. I could see that he too, perceiving my puzzlement, was now curious. He hawked and spat upon the floor.

  I lowered my voice, though it was hardly necessary. Our exchange could not be heard above the hubbub of the tavern, and no one except the Sirroman merchant was paying us any heed. I quickly glanced his way. His look was bemused but I felt I could gamble on his patience holding for a few moments.

  ‘Are you saying you saw me in Anxau two weeks ago?’

  Buel nodded again and said, in a quiet but clear voice, ‘Does your memory fail you? It wasn’t I as I, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ I took a moment for thought. ‘We must talk. Can you visit me at home later?’

  Another nod.

  ‘I trust you’ll bathe beforehand?’

  ‘For you, Mashter Dinbig, no exshesh ish too great!’ He coughed raucously. As I rose he released my leg and slumped back to the floor.

  I returned home sometime after midnight, having left Sorias Bon happily and sleepily installed in one of Hon-Hiaita’s choicest bordellos. As the evening had worn on and his humour increased, I had successfully lowered the asking price for his silks even further, and departed with a firm arrangement for an exchange of other goods at my warehouse early the following morning. I was, I should say, solidly en route to becoming a wealthy man; only the previous year I had purchased a comfortable four-storey villa situated just a little way south of the select Far Prospects quarter of town. My youth had been marked by oftimes grinding poverty and toil, but with diligence, perseverance and sheer hard work and expedience I had built up a respected trading concern with interests both at home and abroad.

  My success in the area of foreign relations has been an achievement in which I took great pride. For generations Khimmur had been deemed inhospitable to outsiders. With some justification it was held to be an unstable nation of semi-barbarians, given to brigandry and internal conflict. Our king, Gastlan Fireheart, had actively striven to resolve the disputes and ages-old feuds which fragmented the kingdom, as had other sovereigns before him. He had met with some success, though several dhoma-lords remained intractable. Still, I had always seen the potential in encouraging open trade with other nations, and after lengthy discussions with the king and his advisors I had been permitted to travel abroad to establish links with our neighbours to improve Khimmur’s image and invite foreign trade.

  At the age of twenty-four I was a well known and influential man. I had also, two years earlier, successfully completed my neophyte training in the secret schools of the Zan-Chassin*, bound my First Entity and become an Initiate of the First Realm. This bestowed significant honours and privileges upon me, and further opened the way to knowledge, power and influence both at home and abroad.

  I had my heart set on purchasing a manse in Far Prospects within the next few months. Here, proximal to the Royal Palace, the movers and notables of Khimmurian society resided. To be sited among them would be indelible testament to my ascent.

  This night I sat at my desk in my study, not yet ready for bed, awaiting my visitor. My thoughts ran over the brief, odd conversation I had had earlier with Buel the Vile. I knew him to be a sharp fellow, no matter his appearance, and his claim to have met me in Anxau two weeks earlier had greatly intrigued me.

  I summoned a servant and ordered good red wine and sweet and salt biscuits in anticipation of his arrival. Moments later there was a quiet knock at my study door. The same servant entered and announced my visitor. ‘Viscount Inbuel m’ Anakastii of Kemahamek, sir.’

  The man who strode into the room was quite tall, well-built if a little slim, with pale skin, dark, closely curling hair and a short, neat beard. He was young, no more than a year or two older than I, and garbed in travelling gear of good quality and cut: blue hose, a white puff-sleeved shirt and padded blue velvet waistcoat, high, soft leather boots and a short cloak. A narrow sword hung from his waist.

  He entered with an assured gait, smiling broadly, his eyes twinkling with merriment. ‘Ah, Sir Dinbig! Well met! How are you?’

  He spread his arms wide, stepped forward and embraced me warmly.

  ‘Inbuel, it is good to see you.’ I returned the embrace. ‘How are you? You look and smell better, it pleases me to say.’

  ‘Ha, yes! Indeed, I’m in fine shape and good odour - at least for the next few hours!’

  I poured wine as he seated himself, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries I said, ‘Now what of this claim of yours to have seen me in Anxau? I take it this was no joke?’

  ‘Joke? Why, no. Why would I joke about such a thing? But you seem concerned.’

  ‘Perplexed, yes.’

  ‘Why so? I gathered in The Laughing Mariner that you didn’t want to speak of it in company, but my only query was as to why you had altered your plans.’

  ‘I didn’t alter them.’

  He frowned. ‘Then why have you returned to Khimmur?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Ah, Sir Dinbig, now it’s you who joke.’

  ‘Not so, I assure you.’

&nb
sp; ‘Then what—?’

  ‘Inbuel, I’ve been away, but to Mulante, which as you know lies in the east of the country. I’ve not left Khimmur for many weeks. The last time I was in Dhaout was almost a year ago. And, unless my memory serves me ill, I’ve not seen you for several months either.’

  ‘But this is absurd. We met. We spoke.’

  ‘In Dhaout?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then I was there without my knowledge!’

  I stood, and replenished my goblet from the carafe of wine, offering more to Inbuel - who declined, setting his goblet upon a small table at his side.

  ‘Plainly you met an impostor. My question is, why?’

  Inbuel was shaking his head, frowning. ‘He was no impostor, Dinbig. Do you think I would not know you?’