Hope is hard to maintain in the Red Wastes, but I held Belazei in my heart. I had never dreamed she had existed until the moment she revealed herself to me, and now I could not comprehend my life without her. Watching her return to the waves was an ache that would not quite go away, but it was a pain I needed. That pain would spur my purpose. I would regain what I lost and I would return to my brides, my family, as a whole man.
Kharsoom was an ancient land of many secrets. The terrain was so harsh that its many forgotten necropolises and haunted crypts could go unvisited for a millennium. The challenge was not to find one such place, but to find the correct one. I first needed to find which might have the secret I sought, and then, to dive into the wasteland to find it.
In my journey into the Red Wastes, I sought out every wise man, every oracle, every witch endowed with the second sight. They told me of a singular figure in the endless timescape of Kharsoom, the warlord Shu-Turul, the bloody-handed priest-king of the First Clan.
Shu-Turul was a rarity in his age and an impossibility in my time in Kharsoom. He was a wizard. They called him priest, said his powers came from the gods, but the descriptions of his jagkru, never far from his side, convinced me otherwise. Shu-Turul carved a legacy of horror across Kharsoom. There are those who claim that it was his actions that made the death of the gods inevitable. Though I could not see it yet, I knew my journey would lead to him.
What convinced me was, in part, that a jagkru familiar implied astonishing power. Familiars tended to the small, night efts, cyclopodes, sea bats, and the like. A jagkru could be bigger than a man and more than capable of devouring one. Appropriate for the man who conquered so much of Kharsoom.
I had ridden into the badlands at the edge of Kharsoom's Great Nemesis, hunting a rumor given to me by a one-eyed witch. This area was said to be haunted by bandit clans and tribes of wild xerxyss, and so I was on my guard as I made my way into the interior.
My second day, I spotted a wisp of smoke near dark. It looked to be nestled amongst some buttes and canyons. I found a pathway into the interior where I judged the smoke to be, but I was no fool. I found a ridge, and made my way up, that I might approach undetected. No one in the Nemesis meant well, and I included myself in that number.
My caution was merited. I found an encampment in a dell, the smoke threading skyward from a poorly-hidden campfire. They might not have cared overmuch at who spotted their fire thanks to their numbers. It was a sizable clan, not an army but more than a match for one man, even if he had a spear forged to kill gods.
The leader was a massive brute with a hooked spear wearing scraps of bone armor, striding among his followers bellowing orders. He had a harem of collared slaves he held on chained leashes. Most of the bandits were involved in the business of camp, tending fire, drinking, eating. A few fought, others talked. A commotion at the end of the camp drew my eye. In the shade of the valley, a wagon held a pair of bone cages. In them were two xerxyss.
I had only limited contact with the creatures, and what I knew of them was confined to the raiders I periodically battled out on the wastes. The Kharsoomians regarded them as savages, either dangers or nuisances depending on their numbers. They were frequent subjects of erotic art and stories, usually of a noble lady being abducted by a tribe of them and used as a pleasure slave. In truth, many Kharsoomian fantasies revolved around nobles taking the roles of slaves. Read into that what you will.
I had seen xerxyss, from time to time, in other contexts. There was the one I saw in Xoc-Nehar and the one that served as champion in the Crown Game. To me, this implied that any perceived savagery was at least partially a choice.
They were undeniably impressive creatures. Standing from one to three heads taller than me, they moved with a spidery grace and acted with incredible power. They combined the features of human and insect in fascinating ways. Their bodies were spindly, with hard armored plates on their shoulders, over their forearms and calves, and in other places along their bodies, as armor they needed never remove. The soft parts of their flesh ranged from pink to blue to purple, with the plates taking a pleasing iridescent quality.
They had four arms, two larger primary arms and two smaller ones that they usually kept folded about their torso, in a groove between armored plates. These they used for fine manipulation.
Their faces were even more fascinating. With fine plates over their features, they could look like they were wearing masks, yet these could open up, showing the softer parts of their mouths in sensual detail. They were strange to my eyes, but I will admit to finding them alluring in their way. They were a beautiful race, but it was an inhuman beauty fueled by their fierce pride.
I hid myself among the rocks, watching. As night fell, I retrieved my fur from Ksenaëe's saddle, wrapped myself in it, and returned to my vantage, watching the bandit clan. I could have left, found myself a cave to spend the night, but something compelled me to stay. The fire grew as the chill descended and the bandits gathered around it to warm themselves againt the chill Kharsoomian gloom. I heard their conversation only in the loud barks and harsh growls that carried to my position.
"Fetch the entertainment," bellowed the warchief.
An appreciative roar went up from the bandits, their eyes turning to the cages with cruel light dancing within. A group of them descended upon the cages like a pack of jagkru around a helpless urok. The bandits chose one of the unfortunate creatures. It made a hideous keening sound, fighting against its captors, but they dragged it from the cage. The other reached for them, or its partner, but the bandits jabbed spears through the bars, driving it back.
They hauled the first to the fire. The one left in the cage uttered wrenching, inhuman screams. I didn't hear what the warchief said, but I didn't have to. I watched in horror as they tied ropes to all six of the creature's limbs, then staked them to the ground.
They spent the next several hours slowly torturing the poor creature to death.
I will not go into the torments they forced upon it. Their cruelty was bottomless, eclipsed only by their creativity. All the while the creature's companion screamed from the other cage. I did not speak their language, but I didn't have to. I knew the tone of revenge, and those were the vows the xerxyss made that night. When the creature finally surrendered to death, the bandits butchered and roasted it. The warchief ate the creature's heart while leering at its companion.
I was offended. How could I not be? The anger grew in me, and I knew then that I would not see this done to the other. I could not wade headlong into their camp and begin killing. That would mean my death. I stayed where I was, crafting the plan that would lead to the creature's freedom and would not cost either of our lives.
I decided to wait until dawn was immanent, when the bandits would be deepest in slumber, then I would approach through the southern entrance into the dell. I could leave Ksenaëe there, ready to bear me to safety. The cage wasn't far. A short run.
The warchief posted sentries, but a handful of sentries I could handle. These were not the bonded men of Clan El. These were brigands who had no reason to believe anyone would trouble them this deep in the wasteland.
In the chill deep blue of the early morning, I crept to the mouth of the dell. I clutched my spear, Ur-Anu, knowing that today would be a red one. Two sentries were posted at either entrance, while the bulk of the clan slept by the guttering fire in piles of furs. I steeled myself, ready for the coming carnage.
I sprinted to the closest sentry, killing him with a single stroke through his chest. The other prepared a scream, but I took his head with the backswing of my weapon. I ran, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the sentries' absence was noted.
I arrived at the cage. The xerxyss watched me with lavender eyes. It tensed, ready to fight me, believing perhaps that I would be author to more torments. I sliced the lock in twain, opening the cage, then beckoning to the creature, pointing to the southern entrance where the sentries lay dead.
"Alarm!" screamed a voice.
I whirled. The bandits were fast, exploding from their furs, grabbing weapons, and massing. The two sentries from the other end of the camp were charging, their spears leveled at me. Threads of fate reached form them to show me the pathways of the last few seconds of their lives. I dispatched both men, but by then the rest of the bandits were upon me.
Innumerable threads of fate danced through my mind. Too many to understand, and every one contradicting another. One path would lead to the death of one man but injury at the hands of another. I made my way back in the direction of the entrance, but there was always ten more of them, slashing, thrusting, hacking.
I butchered these brigands without mercy. Every step to my escape was a slog through a quagmire. I could not see the xerxyss, but I could see nothing but the opponent in front of me. I do not know how many I slew, but I turned the dirt below me into mud. Escape was just ahead. I glimpsed it as I fought. I was within only a few steps when I saw a bone spear, its serrated blade dripping with black, poke from the press of bodies. I couldn't find which thread was his, and by the time I selected one, it was too late. The blade pierced my breast.
