The experienced hands of the masseur slowly restored life to Mark’s punished arms and shoulders. Enjoying the relief, he allowed himself to quietly groan in pleasure from time to time.
When they had been picked up by the trader the day before, the crewmen had to help him climb up the side. Barely able to lift his arms, he had still been in the best state of the four of them.
Three now, he remembered with a small pang of sadness. In the beginning, he had not classified Iristos as anything more than a temporary travel companion. Somebody you spend half a day or a day sitting next to on an airplane. But their shared struggle had changed that. The young man’s strength and endurance had saved his life more than anything else.
He almost moaned under the pressure of two thumps pressing into his muscles.
“I’m done with your shoulders, master,” the servant said in a devout tone. “Do you want me to continue with your lower body?”
Mark was tempted to allow it, but his discipline won out. And there was something in the masseur’s eyes when he asked the question that made Mark uncomfortable.
On company cost, he had no issue taking full advantage of anything room service had to offer. But he wanted to understand what the offer entailed before saying yes.
“No, thank you,” he answered, sitting up. “I will go back to my room and dress. Is the tailor still here?”
The servant bowed his head. “I’m not sure, master.”
Miraculously, his suit jacked had survived the journey. Mark had shown it to a servant woman early this morning in the hope she would be able to brush it. Despite all efforts, it had sustained some minor splashes of dirt here and there.
He watched as the woman feel the fabric of the jacket before hurrying off. She had returned with two other servants who appeared to be of higher rank, and they had all proceeded to touch the jacket carefully, eyes wide. In the end, they had even called for the palace’s tailor. She got even more excited at the material than any of the servants had been.
Mark had been about to send everybody away when the tailor started to ask questions. Within seconds they had been engrossed in conversation about cuts and materials – it was the first conversation he had truly enjoyed in a long time.
The tailor had asked for permission to study the jacket in more depth and he had agreed under the condition that she didn’t remove it from his room. He didn’t care how that condition came across – the thought of handing over the last thing connected to his world made him very uncomfortable. And his last cigarettes were in the inside pocket.
The tailor had agreed without blinking.
Crossing the courtyard his eyes passed over the entrance of the women’s bath. Atissa had not come out yet. Hopefully, she was enjoying herself. The girl deserved a decent rest.
Seeing her up and about had filled Mark with relief - more than he would have thought.
He had also been surprised by how well she looked. Sure, she had slept for almost twenty-four hours but considering their shared ordeal, she had made an amazing recovery. Stroking his finally shaved chin, he mused if it was due to her godly heritage or the fact that she was only fifteen years old. At that age, the body could digest plastic and still be fine.
Passing by Hermistos’ room, Mark considered for a moment looking in on the young man, who lay still unconscious. Later, he thought. Soon, Tepras and the other men from the valley would be brought to the palace. Mark still had to decide how he should proceed from here.
He had accepted the role of the messenger just to get out of the valley. He had hoped to meet up with Tepras’ group, convey the news and extricate himself from the whole situation. If I don’t watch out, I will get involved in a war fought with axes and magic, Mark thought, shaking his head.
How many people had he seen die since his accident? The two warriors at the hut, Dennia’s sons burned to death, and Iristos of course. Five.
And the Assanaten and Riadnian that had died on the middle lake. But that had felt different. It had been from a distance. The warriors at the hut had died right in front of him. The big one had gotten his head split right on top of him. He felt nauseous as the memory swam to the front of his mind.
For a brief moment, Mark wondered how other people would feel in his position. Death was not new to him, of course, but what he had witnessed in this strange place had been a lot more graphic. Taking a deep breath, he enjoyed the fragrance of the oils coming from his body. It had taken time, but he finally felt clean and refreshed.
Entering his room, he ran into the tailor. Behind her stood two more women that had not been there when he had left her with his jacket. The group was just about to leave, carrying cords with knots and pieces of cloth.
“Are you satisfied with your study?” he asked. Politeness was seldom a bad investment.
All three bowed. Only the palace tailor raised her head to meet his eyes before answering. “Yes, master. I know of nothing that comes even close to this fabric, but the cut is inspiring.”
“I’m glad you like it. Let me know if you need to look at it again.”
“Thank you!” The tailor bowed again, and the three women sped past him.
Mark felt around inside his jacket as he watched them go. It was unlikely these people would steal his cigarettes but considering how few he had left, he felt the urge to make sure.
Checking the package’s contents with a single glance, his mind returned to his current dilemma. A dilemma that had become apparent to him after his arrival in the Riadnos.
This world was a primitive, smelly nightmare.
He had been bone-tired at the time he had been guided up to the palace. Yet, some impressions of the city had stuck with him. Citizens, smells, and things he had stepped in. Then he had experienced the comfort of the palace.
It was not a five-star hotel, but it stood worlds apart from Tatros’ and Atissa’s hut or that city below. If he had to stay in this world for any prolonged period, he had to secure an acceptable standard of living.
Changing into one of the tunics laid out for him, he considered his options. It was clear that the level of hospitality he was receiving had something to do with his status as a magi, bringing warning about a dangerous enemy. He had seen Atissa’s and Hermistos’ rooms. They were nice enough but far smaller.
He traced the tunic’s decorated hemline with his fingers. The processing methods might be primitive, but this stitching was quite nice. It had a simple elegance that appealed to him.
Playing the venerable magi opened doors to acceptable living conditions. But what happens if somebody asks me to spit some fire? Mark sighed. He would have to be very careful.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed in the fragrance of the oils one more time. Not too bad, he thought.
With his determination renewed by the feeling of cleanliness, he opened his eyes and turned to the door, not forgetting to pick up his staff before making his way back to the central court area.
On his way, he was joined by Atissa. Glancing down he had to admit that with her hair combed and the dirt scrubbed off she was quite pretty.
“You look better,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
The girl touched her hair and her new tunic alternately as if being clean was a completely new experience for her. “Better. Strange. I’m not sure.”
“Well, you look like a girl now,” Mark said.
“I am a girl.”
“And now people will believe you,” Mark smiled. He was not prone to humor, but this morning’s spa-like treatments had elevated his mood.
Atissa looked up at him suspiciously. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine. I mean… I’m not but I am. Ok?”
“Right…,” Mark said.
Right, he thought. Iristos is dead. Tatros and everybody else she knows are in danger. Naturally, Atissa had very different priorities on her mind. He let his face go slack, adopting his usual neutral expression.
Halfway down the corridor, they were met by a servant.
“Oh, master Mar’Doug, you are coming!”
“They’re already here?” Mark asked, falling into the role of the gracious, professional magi.
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. Please, lead the way.”
For a second, it seemed as if the servant wanted to say something else. But then he bowed and hurried ahead, back the way he had come.
Mark was not particularly worried. He had gained enough experience with the people from the Half-Moon Valley to feel prepared. What he did not look forward to was the emotional component. These men were about to be informed that during their absence their home had become a war zone. Dennia’s husband would learn of the death of his sons and the uncertain fate of the rest of his family.
Preferably, Mark would just give them the bad news and quickly extricate himself from the situation. Glancing down at the girl walking next to him, he suddenly felt unsure about the feasibility of that plan.
Reaching the passage to the courtyard first, the servant stepped through and then to the side, bowing. “I bring you master Mar’Doug and his companion.”
Mark had only a second to wonder before they entered the courtyard and faced a group of more than half a dozen people. These were clearly not the men from the valley. The majority were warriors, carrying spears and shields.
A young man Mark vaguely recognized stepped forward.
“Master Mar’doug, I’m happy to see you well,” the young man said, bowing his head without breaking eye contact. “We met for a short moment upon your arrival. I am Delios, son of Memnostis, anax of Riadnos.”
“Of course,” Mark said, returning the greeting. “We are grateful for the hospitality you are showing us.” Even without identifying himself as the son of the city’s ruler, Delios’ bronze breastplate, jewelry, and fine clothing clearly marked him as an important person. It was strange for Mark to see somebody barely out of his teens, walk in front of grizzled warriors. It reminded him not to judge, based on the norms of his world. In a place like this, a girl at Atissa’s age was considered marriageable.
“It is our honor,” Delios said. “With bringing warning of the Assanaten’s incursion into our territory, you have done us a great service. Now we have enough time to prepare our defenses.”
“Are you not planning to send help?” Atissa asked before Mark could reply.
Delios looked at her as if noticing her for the first time. There was a slight shift in the stance of the people around him. It seemed as if Atissa's sudden question had been out of line.
“My companion is from the Half-Moon Valley,” Mark said quickly. “She’s concerned about her friends and family.”
“Of course,” Delios said, his attention returning to Mark. “We have not yet decided what to do. I have sent word to my father to return to the city as quickly as possible. I have also sent out word via land and ship to all the important basileis with a call for a great council. Normally, this right is limited to the anax but I am sure the circumstances justify my impertinence.”
Sensing Atissa’s dissatisfaction, Mark laid a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your position. I am sure you have made the right decision.”
Delios responded with a grateful nod.
“Aham!”
The sound had come from behind Delios’ back. The young man’s eyes widened, and he quickly stepped to the side.
“I apologize. Master Mar’Doug”, he gestured at the person behind him, ”I have guided mistress Bel’Sara here.” Delios looked back and forth between the two, expectantly.
And, Mark thought, studying the short woman?
Then he noticed the staff in the woman’s hand. A staff with carvings that looked awfully similar to the ones on his own. A chill ran down his spine.
The two supposed magi stared at each other. Both kept their expressions impassive, not giving away whatever was on their mind.
Mark could see the respect, maybe even fear the short woman inspired in the people around her. A sudden image of a bright jet of fire crossing the distance between them entered his mind. His palms started to sweat.
Finally, the woman, mistress Bel’Sara, broke the silent contest. “Thank you for bringing us here, Delios,” she said, turning to the young man. “Master Mar’Doug and I will need some time to exchange news. When do you expect your father’s return?”
“Tomorrow, at the earliest,” he said, visibly glad that the awkward moment was over. “They are on horseback, but my messengers will have to find them first. Master Mar’Doug, I am sure my father will want to talk to you, as soon as he arrives.”
Mark bowed his head slightly. “I understand.”
Delios bowed one more time to him and Bel’Sara before leaving at the head of the group of warriors. Only himself, Atissa, the female magi, and a young woman of slightly darker skin than Atissa remained. Despite her age, she projected a type of fierceness as if she was ready to pounce on them the moment her mistress gave the word. She carried a knife on her belt and a quiver containing both bow and arrows in her hand.
Mark became uncomfortably aware that the staff in his hand was their only weapon. Atissa had left her gear in her room.
Not that it would make a difference if this Bel’Sara decided to incinerate them where they stood.
“So, who in the name of Nemki, are you?” the magi asked, all civility gone from her voice.
The experienced hands of the masseur slowly restored life to Mark’s punished arms and shoulders. Enjoying the relief, he allowed himself to quietly groan in pleasure from time to time.
When they had been picked up by the trader the day before, the crewmen had to help him climb up the side. Barely able to lift his arms, he had still been in the best state of the four of them.
Three now, he remembered with a small pang of sadness. In the beginning, he had not classified Iristos as anything more than a temporary travel companion. Somebody you spend half a day or a day sitting next to on an airplane. But their shared struggle had changed that. The young man’s strength and endurance had saved his life more than anything else.
He almost moaned under the pressure of two thumps pressing into his muscles.
“I’m done with your shoulders, master,” the servant said in a devout tone. “Do you want me to continue with your lower body?”
Mark was tempted to allow it, but his discipline won out. And there was something in the masseur’s eyes when he asked the question that made Mark uncomfortable.
On company cost, he had no issue taking full advantage of anything room service had to offer. But he wanted to understand what the offer entailed before saying yes.
“No, thank you,” he answered, sitting up. “I will go back to my room and dress. Is the tailor still here?”
The servant bowed his head. “I’m not sure, master.”
Miraculously, his suit jacked had survived the journey. Mark had shown it to a servant woman early this morning in the hope she would be able to brush it. Despite all efforts, it had sustained some minor splashes of dirt here and there.
He watched as the woman feel the fabric of the jacket before hurrying off. She had returned with two other servants who appeared to be of higher rank, and they had all proceeded to touch the jacket carefully, eyes wide. In the end, they had even called for the palace’s tailor. She got even more excited at the material than any of the servants had been.
Mark had been about to send everybody away when the tailor started to ask questions. Within seconds they had been engrossed in conversation about cuts and materials – it was the first conversation he had truly enjoyed in a long time.
The tailor had asked for permission to study the jacket in more depth and he had agreed under the condition that she didn’t remove it from his room. He didn’t care how that condition came across – the thought of handing over the last thing connected to his world made him very uncomfortable. And his last cigarettes were in the inside pocket.
The tailor had agreed without blinking.
Crossing the courtyard his eyes passed over the entrance of the women’s bath. Atissa had not come out yet. Hopefully, she was enjoying herself. The girl deserved a decent rest.
Seeing her up and about had filled Mark with relief - more than he would have thought.
He had also been surprised by how well she looked. Sure, she had slept for almost twenty-four hours but considering their shared ordeal, she had made an amazing recovery. Stroking his finally shaved chin, he mused if it was due to her godly heritage or the fact that she was only fifteen years old. At that age, the body could digest plastic and still be fine.
Passing by Hermistos’ room, Mark considered for a moment looking in on the young man, who lay still unconscious. Later, he thought. Soon, Tepras and the other men from the valley would be brought to the palace. Mark still had to decide how he should proceed from here.
He had accepted the role of the messenger just to get out of the valley. He had hoped to meet up with Tepras’ group, convey the news and extricate himself from the whole situation. If I don’t watch out, I will get involved in a war fought with axes and magic, Mark thought, shaking his head.
How many people had he seen die since his accident? The two warriors at the hut, Dennia’s sons burned to death, and Iristos of course. Five.
And the Assanaten and Riadnian that had died on the middle lake. But that had felt different. It had been from a distance. The warriors at the hut had died right in front of him. The big one had gotten his head split right on top of him. He felt nauseous as the memory swam to the front of his mind.
For a brief moment, Mark wondered how other people would feel in his position. Death was not new to him, of course, but what he had witnessed in this strange place had been a lot more graphic. Taking a deep breath, he enjoyed the fragrance of the oils coming from his body. It had taken time, but he finally felt clean and refreshed.
Entering his room, he ran into the tailor. Behind her stood two more women that had not been there when he had left her with his jacket. The group was just about to leave, carrying cords with knots and pieces of cloth.
“Are you satisfied with your study?” he asked. Politeness was seldom a bad investment.
All three bowed. Only the palace tailor raised her head to meet his eyes before answering. “Yes, master. I know of nothing that comes even close to this fabric, but the cut is inspiring.”
“I’m glad you like it. Let me know if you need to look at it again.”
“Thank you!” The tailor bowed again, and the three women sped past him.
Mark felt around inside his jacket as he watched them go. It was unlikely these people would steal his cigarettes but considering how few he had left, he felt the urge to make sure.
Checking the package’s contents with a single glance, his mind returned to his current dilemma. A dilemma that had become apparent to him after his arrival in the Riadnos.
This world was a primitive, smelly nightmare.
He had been bone-tired at the time he had been guided up to the palace. Yet, some impressions of the city had stuck with him. Citizens, smells, and things he had stepped in. Then he had experienced the comfort of the palace.
It was not a five-star hotel, but it stood worlds apart from Tatros’ and Atissa’s hut or that city below. If he had to stay in this world for any prolonged period, he had to secure an acceptable standard of living.
Changing into one of the tunics laid out for him, he considered his options. It was clear that the level of hospitality he was receiving had something to do with his status as a magi, bringing warning about a dangerous enemy. He had seen Atissa’s and Hermistos’ rooms. They were nice enough but far smaller.
He traced the tunic’s decorated hemline with his fingers. The processing methods might be primitive, but this stitching was quite nice. It had a simple elegance that appealed to him.
Playing the venerable magi opened doors to acceptable living conditions. But what happens if somebody asks me to spit some fire? Mark sighed. He would have to be very careful.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed in the fragrance of the oils one more time. Not too bad, he thought.
With his determination renewed by the feeling of cleanliness, he opened his eyes and turned to the door, not forgetting to pick up his staff before making his way back to the central court area.
On his way, he was joined by Atissa. Glancing down he had to admit that with her hair combed and the dirt scrubbed off she was quite pretty.
“You look better,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
The girl touched her hair and her new tunic alternately as if being clean was a completely new experience for her. “Better. Strange. I’m not sure.”
“Well, you look like a girl now,” Mark said.
“I am a girl.”
“And now people will believe you,” Mark smiled. He was not prone to humor, but this morning’s spa-like treatments had elevated his mood.
Atissa looked up at him suspiciously. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine. I mean… I’m not but I am. Ok?”
“Right…,” Mark said.
Right, he thought. Iristos is dead. Tatros and everybody else she knows are in danger. Naturally, Atissa had very different priorities on her mind. He let his face go slack, adopting his usual neutral expression.
Halfway down the corridor, they were met by a servant.
“Oh, master Mar’Doug, you are coming!”
“They’re already here?” Mark asked, falling into the role of the gracious, professional magi.
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. Please, lead the way.”
For a second, it seemed as if the servant wanted to say something else. But then he bowed and hurried ahead, back the way he had come.
Mark was not particularly worried. He had gained enough experience with the people from the Half-Moon Valley to feel prepared. What he did not look forward to was the emotional component. These men were about to be informed that during their absence their home had become a war zone. Dennia’s husband would learn of the death of his sons and the uncertain fate of the rest of his family.
Preferably, Mark would just give them the bad news and quickly extricate himself from the situation. Glancing down at the girl walking next to him, he suddenly felt unsure about the feasibility of that plan.
Reaching the passage to the courtyard first, the servant stepped through and then to the side, bowing. “I bring you master Mar’Doug and his companion.”
Mark had only a second to wonder before they entered the courtyard and faced a group of more than half a dozen people. These were clearly not the men from the valley. The majority were warriors, carrying spears and shields.
A young man Mark vaguely recognized stepped forward.
“Master Mar’doug, I’m happy to see you well,” the young man said, bowing his head without breaking eye contact. “We met for a short moment upon your arrival. I am Delios, son of Memnostis, anax of Riadnos.”
“Of course,” Mark said, returning the greeting. “We are grateful for the hospitality you are showing us.” Even without identifying himself as the son of the city’s ruler, Delios’ bronze breastplate, jewelry, and fine clothing clearly marked him as an important person. It was strange for Mark to see somebody barely out of his teens, walk in front of grizzled warriors. It reminded him not to judge, based on the norms of his world. In a place like this, a girl at Atissa’s age was considered marriageable.
“It is our honor,” Delios said. “With bringing warning of the Assanaten’s incursion into our territory, you have done us a great service. Now we have enough time to prepare our defenses.”
“Are you not planning to send help?” Atissa asked before Mark could reply.
Delios looked at her as if noticing her for the first time. There was a slight shift in the stance of the people around him. It seemed as if Atissa's sudden question had been out of line.
“My companion is from the Half-Moon Valley,” Mark said quickly. “She’s concerned about her friends and family.”
“Of course,” Delios said, his attention returning to Mark. “We have not yet decided what to do. I have sent word to my father to return to the city as quickly as possible. I have also sent out word via land and ship to all the important basileis with a call for a great council. Normally, this right is limited to the anax but I am sure the circumstances justify my impertinence.”
Sensing Atissa’s dissatisfaction, Mark laid a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your position. I am sure you have made the right decision.”
Delios responded with a grateful nod.
“Aham!”
The sound had come from behind Delios’ back. The young man’s eyes widened, and he quickly stepped to the side.
“I apologize. Master Mar’Doug”, he gestured at the person behind him, ”I have guided mistress Bel’Sara here.” Delios looked back and forth between the two, expectantly.
And, Mark thought, studying the short woman?
Then he noticed the staff in the woman’s hand. A staff with carvings that looked awfully similar to the ones on his own. A chill ran down his spine.
The two supposed magi stared at each other. Both kept their expressions impassive, not giving away whatever was on their mind.
Mark could see the respect, maybe even fear the short woman inspired in the people around her. A sudden image of a bright jet of fire crossing the distance between them entered his mind. His palms started to sweat.
Finally, the woman, mistress Bel’Sara, broke the silent contest. “Thank you for bringing us here, Delios,” she said, turning to the young man. “Master Mar’Doug and I will need some time to exchange news. When do you expect your father’s return?”
“Tomorrow, at the earliest,” he said, visibly glad that the awkward moment was over. “They are on horseback, but my messengers will have to find them first. Master Mar’Doug, I am sure my father will want to talk to you, as soon as he arrives.”
Mark bowed his head slightly. “I understand.”
Delios bowed one more time to him and Bel’Sara before leaving at the head of the group of warriors. Only himself, Atissa, the female magi, and a young woman of slightly darker skin than Atissa remained. Despite her age, she projected a type of fierceness as if she was ready to pounce on them the moment her mistress gave the word. She carried a knife on her belt and a quiver containing both bow and arrows in her hand.
Mark became uncomfortably aware that the staff in his hand was their only weapon. Atissa had left her gear in her room.
Not that it would make a difference if this Bel’Sara decided to incinerate them where they stood.
“So, who in the name of Nemki, are you?” the magi asked, all civility gone from her voice.
