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JOURNAL Entry Five

Ruins of Zatsakkaz, South of Pawnkam


So here I sit, trying to keep my body between the wind and this damned journal, half-blind as I scribble in the double moonshadow of the great gate of Zatsakkaz… or at least, what’s left of it. Having finally found a way into the ancient, sand-buried city, we are trying to get what sleep we can before starting our descent tomorrow.

Yes, we’re set to plumb the depths of yet another forlorn ruin buried by time. It’s enough to make a fellow think that the universe lacks imagination—or novelty, when you come right down to it.

But if I were fool enough to complain aloud, Elweyr would heckle me like a fishwife. “No pleasing you, is there, Ahearn?” he’s crowed on a few occasions now. “Before we met Druadaen, you couldn’t wait to get into lost ruins and find all the treasure there.” And then he gets my goat by doing the one thing he knows I just can’t stand: he snickers. I’d mind a full belly laugh a great deal less. I could live with one loud guffaw at my hopes. But a measly, weaselly snicker? It’s almost a way of saying, “mind, I’m not done yet; I’ll be back to turn the knife again… you eejit.”

Not that I don’t deserve it. Ruins sound a great deal more profitable—and tidy—than the grimy Unders in which I’ve both fought and fled the Bent. But in the end, whether the walls are rough or smooth, one dark, dank maze is pretty much like any other.

But as Tharêdæath saw us off from the wharf at Eslêntecrë, I smiled—fool that I am—at the prospect of riches and that familiar rush of hope and greed: the two cornerstones of all treasure hunting. Just before boarding, our Uulamantre friend had stood us a meal and a drink and shared what he knew of Zatsakkaz, as well as a few signs to watch for as we sought its long-lost repository of moon plates. Surely, I thought as we waved goodbye, if any of the little metal slabs remain unpilfered, other more profitable items will be there as well. And I suppose that may yet prove to be the case, but it will have to be quite a grand treasure to be fair recompense for all the nuisance and danger we’ve already faced just getting here.

Our voyage started out well enough. It is always a pleasure to be reunited with Captain Firinne. She seems to have adopted us as her own, probably because she and Varcaxtan knew each other from times before. Or maybe it was just that they knew of each other. However, given the way she glances at him sometimes, I wouldn’t at all be surprised if she knew a good deal more about him than he did about her—at least until he became a blissfully married man. But if the good captain still carries a torch for our favorite Dunarran uncle, she remains the good captain in every measure of the word; she gives no sign of having any feelings other than those that would be right and proper for any two Dunarrans who share a devotion to both homeland and duty.

The cruise to the southern tip of Ar Navir was not graced by fair winds or weather. But being aboard the Swiftsure, we were unworried. If anyone could get us through, it would be Captain Firinne. And if she couldn’t, well, that’s no fault of hers. Fate holds the highest card of every suit and can trump any trick you might hope to play in this chancy and fickle game of life.

During one particularly fierce blow, the good captain ran for the land-sheltered bay at Bajeos, second city of Anatha Damianna. With the weather sitting slow and surly offshore, she decided to lay over and take on supplies for the much longer part of our journey: all the way to the eastern coast of Mihal’j. We were inspired by her prudence and so, when we went ashore in Bajeos, it was always in the company of her crew and with a firm resolve to keep both our coin in our purses and trouble at arm’s length. For once, we succeeded at both.

Anatha Damianna is different from the other Ballashan realms in that it is freewheeling and openhanded where the others are aloof and closed-fisted. Half the nation’s blood came from waves of Othaericæn refugees, a sea-people driven from their islands by Lajantpurn conquerors. Hardly a surprise, then, that in Bajeos’ wide and bustling markets, the most oft-told tales are not of warriors or rulers but of daring captains who sailed in search of new markets, brought home new goods, or died trying. However, since a “Dami” presumes (and expects) a trader to be an adventurer, it is a hard snub if one refers to a merchant as a mere “shopkeeper.”

From Bajeos it was a long, sun-punished sail—almost a quarter of Arrdanc’s girth—to our destination: the free port of Pawnkam. Pinched between Obdapur to the north and Shaddishir to the south, it was the closest to our destination and had harbor masters who didn’t care a whit if there happened to be a Dunarran hull riding at anchor in their moorings. It’s a bit puzzling why so many of the nations of Mihal’j have such hard opinions of Dunarra and its allies. I’m sure they can cite grievances against the old Empire—well, Consentium—but it was their own rulers who had—and still have—a taste for massacring their enemies. So in the case of Dunarra, I suspect that their ill temper isn’t quickened so much by remembered offenses as it is by sour grapes. As Elweyr and Druadaen and other overeducated people tell me, in the years after the Cataclysm, Mihal’j was home to the greatest powers, some of which became empires in their own right. But for reasons that are equally unknown and uninteresting to me, they went the way of all things: blown away by the winds of time, just like the sands of the desert that dominates the north half of this bloody continent.

Pawnkam proved itself a riot of different goods, different peoples, and different languages. Happily, the local dialect is naught but a mix of Mihal’j’s two most common tongues. Less happily, only Elweyr could make heads or tails of that jabber. His (still missing) mother was only a wee tot when her family fled Lajantpur (or parts thereabout) when yet another religious war boiled over and sent a new flood of refugees streaming north to Ar Navir.

Still, despite having his mother’s complexion and a smattering of her native tongue, Elweyr was known for a foreigner even before he opened his mouth. Not that it mattered, at first. There were smiles and friendly jostles and patted hands aplenty in the suqs of Pawnkam. No merchant approached us to ask what we sought without a great many wishes for our continued good health and assurances of assistance. Oddly, Elweyr’s was the only glum face among us. I poked fun at his sour response to the friendly greetings, but he only shook his head and muttered, “just you wait.”

As we kitted ourselves for desert travel, we asked about the best path to Zatsakkaz. The most common response was a blank stare, but a few knew of it. Once a capital of Mihal’j’s most storied empire, it was built to be just that and only that: a seat of power in a place where no faction or family held sway. Naught but sand now, it was founded with water in mind. It was a backwater region but at the headwaters of the river that runs south to Gamalaj: a once thriving port on an inlet further down the coast. So Zatsakkaz boasted a direct route to the sea, yet was distant enough to be spared the disasters—both of weather and invaders—that might come from it.

However, even though the merchants’ tales of those bygone days had fewer parts in common than a spider and a sparrow, they all came to the same grisly end as Tharêdæath’s account. Zatsakkaz was sacked and razed not only before and during the fall of the empire, but twice after. The desert pushed further south and filled the first ten miles of the river. The water struggled back to the surface downstream, but as a marshy maze of shallow streams and rills. The road that had run north alongside its old course disappeared from want of traffic as much as the sands that blanketed it.

When we asked how to reach Zatsakkaz now, we received as many opinions as there were old, snaggletoothed vendors to offer them. But each long-winded explanation ended with the same caveat: “Of course, that city has been nothing but sand-covered ruins for five centuries. Wait: no, ten centuries. Or maybe more. I am unsure. But I fear there are no paths to the place nor guides who know the way.”

The last old vendor did drop a useful crumb despite himself. Insofar as Zatsakkaz had been built into the side of a rocky hill, he thought it might still be used as a landmark by the only persons who still crossed the wastes: the men who worked for Jossgob, ostler for the forces of the Mayor-General of Pawnkam and purveyor of transport for those foolish—or desperate—enough to journey into the desert. But Jossgob’s kraal and keddah was almost an hour’s walk beyond the port’s mud-brick outskirts, so we settled on an early start the next morning.

The matter of whether or not we should bring our kit with us stirred up some testy wrangling among the group. But we knew that Captain Firinne was itching to sail south to a friendlier port where Dunarra had a trading station. Not only could she be provisioned there, but the exchange of reports and advice pouches would be an ample excuse for having wandered so far beyond her normal ports of call.

None of us wanted to be more beholden to her than we already were, so the matter was decided: at first light, we’d head for Jossgob’s in full kit so she could be on her way. But as we topped the ridge that kept the sand from drifting into Pawnkam’s streets, we saw the Swiftsure slip under the horizon… and with her, the only persons we could trust.

Once we’d passed the tilting shacks that marked the limits of the city, we entered a surrounding belt of mastabas: low buildings in which desert-dwellers place their dead. Not long after we started seeking the shortest path through that graveyard jumble, S’ythreni caught up to me and muttered, “We have an escort.”

“Aye? So someone has decided to watch us leave their fair city?”

“No. I think that almost a score of someones are quite happy that we’ve left it behind—along with any potential witnesses.”

“Ah. So, we’ve been followed out by thieves, then.”

She nodded. “Or spotted by bandits who hide out here.”

The two of us began to lollygag, letting the others pass ahead. As they did, we mentioned the blaggards trailing us. There was nary a raised voice or betraying glance at the squat crypts around us. Not even Cerven revealed that we knew ourselves to be stalked like so many sheep.

When the attack finally came, it was really quite a sad business. Perhaps the glare of the sun kept our enemies from seeing the full measure of our weapons and armor. Or maybe they thought we didn’t know how to use them. Or that foreigners like us would soon be dizzy with heatstroke. Whatever the reason, an occasional glance from the corner of our eyes showed a small group of them—archers, we reasoned—trotting alongside us to the left. They clearly meant to ambush us from that side, and so, drive us toward the larger group we could hear pacing us on the right.

We waited until the bunch on the left slipped behind a row of large mastabas. Their intent was as plain as the trunk on an elephant’s face: use the lumpy buildings and mounds to screen them as they moved into positions from which they’d let loose at us. I almost pitied the poor bastards; the moment the mastabas blocked their view, we reversed and trotted over to the rearmost of the sunbaked buildings. We peeked around its corner; we were directly behind them. And with a clear line of sight.

Between S’ythreni’s ironpith crossbow and Varcaxtan’s compound bow, half of them were down or wounded in a trice. Cerven may have feathered one as well. Charging along with R’aonsun and Umkhira, I was too busy to notice. The two still standing drew their self-bows but loosed too quickly; the shafts went wide and high. One of them fled a moment after the other: too late to escape the edge of our green lass’s axe. The sole survivor went yowling off toward the larger bunch waiting on the right flank. As he did, we set up in the very position from which the archers had meant to ambush us.

I don’t know why the rest of that sorry lot charged through the same open ground where they’d hoped to catch us, but that’s just what they did. Maybe they paid no mind to the warnings of the last archer. Or maybe he was too addled to offer any. But whatever the reason, they came straight into the rain of our arrows and bolts, which didn’t let up until the rest of us jumped out of the shadows and countercharged.

The half dozen blaggards who’d made it that far didn’t handle their weapons any better than they’d set their ambush. Which told me straight away that they weren’t bandits, but must have both those skills to come away with their lives, let alone any loot. So that made this bunch naught but a pack of thieves who’d decided that an odd lot of newcomers would be easy pickings. “Not so easy after all,” I muttered as we all stood panting over their bodies on the hard-packed sand. But how’d they’d come to know of us and our plans so quickly—or at all—was still a puzzlement.

Until, that is, Elweyr left off watching the last four flee back to the city and shot a hard stare at me. “This is what I meant when I said ‘just you wait.’”

Which I understood right enough. Back in Menara, he and I had often relied upon folk whose keen eyes and loose lips were well worth the coppers we put in their grasping palms. So it stood to reason that, among the fawning hawkers in the suqs, there were a few that padded their profits by selling word of what they saw or heard.

Ironically, we were the ones who profited from their treachery. In addition to billon coins and waterskins, our attackers donated a few poisoned weapons to our kits. However, their ham-handed ambush brought a new annoyance: the chance of trouble with Pawnkam’s authorities. Not because of the bodies we left in the shadows of the mastabas; there’s little doubt that they and their deeds are already well known to the militia. But, as travelers from afar, we are easy targets for all manner of petty officials who could make our waking hours nightmares. Either we’d endure their countless inquiries and hearings and all manner of official folderol and lose both time and coin as we waited for it to end, or we could grease their palms and be on our way. For a group like ours, that choice was no choice at all, and they’d know it the moment they laid eyes on us. And with an aeosti and a Dunarran in the mix, they might become especially greedy. So we knew that our choice was between striking out directly into the dunes or being held ransom by a crew of quill-necked leeches who made their living by extracting legal bakshish.

It took us the better part of that day to reach Jossgob’s. By the time we had reached an agreement for guides and camels, the bright desert stars were out and it was either sleep on the sand or pay a fistful of silver to snuggle together one stall over from the goats. I wasn’t the only one who got more sleep the next morning—atop a camel, no less.

Our guides proved as stingy with words as we were with coin, but they brought us safe across seventy leagues of sand. They had us travel in the cool of the night, with only a few glances at the stars to keep us moving true. Along the way, small winged snakes followed us more closely than our own shadows, small jaws snapping like skeleton fingers. The guides chortled when we put our hands on our hilts, and one actually spared a few words to explain that the odd beasts weren’t hungry for our flesh, but for the flies that trailed us and swarmed in clouds around camels.

But I was still powerfully annoyed at the flapping pests and was about to shoo one away when our oldest guide grabbed my arm. Seems the annoying airborne asps are just that: testy little buggers that, when angered, spit deadly venom. Had we had more time, the guide explained, they would have tried to capture as many as they could. Their powerful poison gets good coin and they do not breed in captivity. Indeed, the thieves’ weapons had been painted with their venom. So after that, we sat as still as statues whenever they swooped close in pursuit of an especially juicy horsefly.

A day ago, we finished our journey alone and on foot. The guides would not go closer to Zatsakkaz for fear of ghosts and walking skeletons and monsters they called “dry-men.” They seemed ready to wet their galabijas when nattering about the last, but not a one of their tales agreed on who or what these marauders actually were. I suspect that’s because they’re no more real than the specters or ghouls the guides presume to be stalking around the ruins. Which, so far as we can tell, are empty and lifeless as the well-baked rocks that throw back the sun’s heat with the same force as furnace doors swung wide. The only pleasant thing about the ruins? We’re quit of those damn flying snakes: hsitsé, they’re called.

I should be sleeping, or at least staring at the desert-bright stars, but I couldn’t put off writing in this blasted journal any longer. Besides, I’m twitchy with the thought of going underground again. You’d think that after crawling and skulking in the Under of Gur Grehar I’d shrug off another plunge into the bowels of the earth as naught but a trifle, particularly with so formidable a group as ours. We carry fine weapons and armor, as well as various charms and amulets bestowed upon us by Tharêdæath and even Ilshamësa: ones that bring luck, give warnings, point toward water, or calm a given species.

But for all that kit—every bit of it better than what we had before the shipwreck—there’s a final cost and travail that no amount of money, equipment, or planning can reduce:

Time.

It’s been better than a dozen moonphases since Druadaen disappeared on his fool errand into the beyond—which might yet prove to be oblivion. Gods know why I worry about him as if he were my brother. Well, my half-brother. Or maybe a second cousin. Ah, bollocks: he’s grown on me and that’s all there is to it.

But having spent all these days crisscrossing the whole bleedin’ world in search of a hint on how best to find him, we’re hardly closer to an answer than when we started. And here we are, about to dive blind into yet another perilous ruin, all on the hope—the mere hope, mind you!—that we’ll stumble onto a long-lost trove of little metal plaques that were already old when the Cataclysm began.

If it wasn’t for this “relayer” I’m wearing—this quelsuur—we wouldn’t even have known how to start. And all we can do is trust that it will always point us toward Druadaen (and maybe its cousin metals), much the way a lodestone points to the pole. And with all the gods to witness, I’ve often wondered if the others might have left off if it wasn’t for that bloody ring.

I’d thought—well, I’d hoped—it would have all sorts of wondrous powers, but so far, the only help it’s given is to lead me to those who needed saving after the wreck. But even then, I have to wonder: did the ring do that for our good? Or is it because we are the only means to its own end: finding Druadaen. And perhaps the sai’niin bits with him. Or maybe they’ve become one and the same. These damn wizardly mysteries make my skin crawl.

But damned if it doesn’t make its wants known when it comes time for us to choose our next direction. Its pulses may not be powerful, but they’re as clear as the looks of a moody spouse: not a word spoken, but you know right enough which way to step if you don’t want to sleep in the barn.

Back in the early days of our travels with Druadaen—when we thought him naught but a means to hobnobbing with the wealthy and powerful—there’d have been grumbling aplenty at all the moonphases we’ve spent accomplishing damn-all. But now, even High Ears just sighs and shakes her fine-boned head when we bump our noses into yet another delay or detour. That said, it’s a right soothing salve to keep company with an ancient dragon and an august Dunarran warrior as we rove about. And naught but a fool would whine about having the ear and the blessings of the Great Pool of Mirroskye. Having such acquaintances makes it a near surety that you’ll not die in the gutter. Well, at least not because of an empty purse or empty belly.

But it’s not their generosity with goods and graces that keep us on this mad course; it’s the time and attention they devote to it and to us. Sure but they’d not trouble themselves if finding Druadaen was of no more moment than to see him safely home. Something greater than our lot, or even those lofty folk themselves, is at stake. But I’ll be a turtle’s twig if I can suss out just what that might be. My old self would dun me for want of a brain if I tried to make a case for a journey with no clear path to profit—or to anything else.

And yet, I’ll be damned if I’m not dogged by an odd presentiment: that having kept to this path may prove to be a greater wealth than gold when it’s time to shrug off this mortal coil. I’ve seen silver come and silver go (it’s no mistake that the demigod of coin is also the deity of caprice), but to be part of something greater than oneself? Of a purpose so steeped in mystery and consequence that it may echo down through later ages? Most folk only hear of such adventures ’round campfires and laugh them off as hogwash. But we are living it, and there’s a powerful pull in that… whatever it might cost in wealth, well-being, or both.

But having set down all these reasons, I now see them for what they truly are: high-sounding excuses to avoid admitting why I’m making yet another of the stupid decisions that have kept me on the edge of paupery my whole life long: the kind where I follow my fool heart. Because, damn it, I know that Dunarran bookworm would do no less for me. And, truth be told (though I’ll never admit it beyond these pages), I miss having him as a true brother-in-arms.

But in the very act of scribbling that confession, I see a deeper reason. Yes, I miss Druadaen, but more than that, I need him. Not for my sake, but for me little tad. Two years ago, I rested sure in knowing what was needed to make her safe: an ample and steady flow of coin. But now? The world around me looks the same, even the parts I regarded with a knowing wink; after all, I knew better than most that appearances can be deceiving. But traveling with that blasted Dunarran opened my eyes wider still: it’s not just that appearances can be deceiving; they mostly are deceiving. And the more power that’s at stake, the more deceiving the appearances.

I’m no one’s fool, and gods know I’m not afraid to fight the shadowy threats that have loomed up before us, but that’s not the same thing as knowing where to look for them. And I fear—every day—that I’ll never learn how.

Mind you, I don’t lose a wink of sleep worrying over what may become of me because of what I don’t see approaching. It’s a fool of a man who chooses to live by the sword if he can’t also live with the near certainty that he’ll die by one, too. But my tad! How do I keep her safe from what I can’t see? Hovering near to protect her is the worst answer, since any shadow following me would then be sure to fall across her, as well.

That leaves only one option: to take the war to what threatens her rather than waiting for it to slouch toward that moss-roofed cottage outside Menara. It’s an ancient and ever-green truth that if we don’t go out to hunt the beasts that mean to devour us, they will breed like rats and, in time, swarm over our walls and thresholds.

But how do I do that if I don’t know where to seek them, don’t recognize the subtle tracks they leave in the loam of human events? That’s why I miss—I need—Druadaen: to point out the threats I might miss. Or to teach me how to see them for myself.

Ever since he stepped through a door into nowhere, each day has become a little more worrisome than the last. I seem to hear great leathery wings flying above the black clouds of every storm.

And they always sound like they’re heading toward a cottage on the outskirts of Menara.


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