Port of Manyaa

The currents of the water lapped along the edge of the brick and mortar seawall and pier. Boats of many sizes sat at rest along the water's edge. An early morning fog hung over the water's edge, shrouding the port in a hanging veil of silver and air-born milk. The air was cool and still, lending to the ear a great many distant sounds that echoed in the mist. From the grinding of wood on wood or the light bouncing of drifting boats against the water's edge, the most distant sounds of chanting and early morning rituals. The voices of man, satyr, and their home all spun and sang in the same lowly voice as everything else.

At the water's edge, dressed in cloaks and slinging great bags over their shoulders a group descended onto the water's edge, trotting and darting down wide dew-soaked steps to the water's landing below. The red and orange stone of Manyaa glowed with an almost earthly tone. Like blood. Or like smoldering coals. Above and beyond the mist the silhouettes of towers and temple stupas pressed themselves against the onslaught of the sky. It was much akin to being inside the quiver of an archer.

The group landed upon the piers and cantered with a purpose along the river-line. Looking into the mist at the bobbing boats that lined the way, looking for their own particular ship. Passed dinghies and fishing boats at rest they went along. Picking through with their eyes the wood craft with their forest of masts and drawn sails, or raised restful oars.

“So tell me noble Vosput,” Palea started as they walked along. The prince's head was covered in a bone-white turban. A scarf of embroidered wool and cotton flowed down from the back where it wrapped across his shoulder and neck, “have you ever been at sea?”

“I have.” Balel responded with a dry voice. Last night's wine drummed in his head, and he has only been given so long to eat up and drink water before Agnimatra ushered them off, shouting that he had a boat for them to take north.

“I would have expected that an inland desert dweller as yourself would have not touched water,” laughed Palea, “Forgive me for assuming otherwise.”

“There is no pain felt.” assured the mercenary as they walked along. The docks were empty, almost uneasily so. He wondered if this was some intent of Agnimatra or merely a fact of the hour he had not realized. Rarely had he ever strayed about the streets so early. The sun itself was a barely visible disk in the mist, the sky burning only with a faded orange fire, still mostly purple and black. It was what was cast through the stupas and the towers and where their shadows did not lay that there was light. The mist knew so much, it glowed with a soft fire.

“Well, there is a good wind this time of year.” the prince smiled as he watched his brothers walk ahead of them through the mist, “The wind is blowing in from our south, we'll get to where we'll need to be in short order.”

“Much of this seems to be boiling down to convenience.” Balel commented dryly.

“Depends on how much you'd like to call it convenient.” sneered the prince. Rolling his eyes he let out a annoyed grunt. “It's actually not going to plan at all, we had this planned for months. We know who we're getting, where his remains are, and of course we should all know what to expect. But we're one man down to circumstances beyond our control.

“Perhaps it's punishment.” he shrugged indifferently, stroking his moustache “A little too much energy, or the universe saw fit to complicate something for once. But I am not happy to going into the mountains.

“Once more, it's sacrifice season in Poertia.”

“A foul kingdom.” Balel acknowledged.

“Have you been there?” Palea asked.

“Once, I will never go again.”

“I hear their kings are all sorts of cannibals!” Palea scoffed, “They're cursed. And there is no wonder why for their impure life-style. Should I get the chance, and the excuse I would hang every single one of the heathens. Or stick them on spits to bleed. Let me be the instrument of their karma.”

Balel nodded along as they walked. Coming up on a larger boat moored to the dock the company stopped. This was their boat.

As long as a train of ten wagons, and wide as a house is sat tied to the dock. The rigging still lay across the deck, cast to the smooth frosty stones of the riverside. Branching out over the deck arms the size of thick timbers jutted out, draped and laden with bright-yellow and green sails. Balel looked up at it with a sense of peculiar bemusement.

“This is it, I suppose.” Palea said. His brothers were already strapping their gear onto their shoulders, and climbing aboard. Over the edge of the deck the curious sailors aboard peeked down at the newcomers climbing aboard. But they paid them no heed beyond the mild curiosity.

The mercenary stood back watching the princes climb aboard. One by one that pulled themselves up over the edge, throwing their packs over onto deck. Balel couldn't help but watched bemused and stunned at the nimbleness of hooves on rope. It was something he'd seen no horse do. But his own advance was however restrained. They were going north towards Poertia. Surely not in it, but too close.

“Is something the matter?” asked a voice. Balel turned, Agnimatra slowly walked up to him from the fog. His fingers wrapped together at his belly. He looked into the mercenary's eyes, studying him. He felt uncomfortable, like his gaze was too sharp. Too much like knives, like spears. It was like he was being read.

“Yeah.” he said.

“You're not confident.” Agnimatra read off, like a book. “Have you never sailed?”

“No, I have.” he repeated restraining his bitterness at the charge.

“Then it's something else.” Agnimatra shuffled, “What is it?”

Balel didn't answer. He stayed quiet, staring up at the ship. The deck was still, the crew drawing back into the ship with their visitors. “I was in Poertia once.” he said, “A noble had hired me, offered gold to round up people from some other tribe. Before I left for the far north, where I got my tattoos.

“But, I hate to admit it. But that kingdom frightens me. There's a cold air over it. There's blood in its name. It's not proper. I'm not religious, but that kingdom has no gods.”

“Many might agree.” Agnimatra assured gently, “But a job is a job, you realize. We're all lucky here the morning mists are too thick to sail out in. So there's time to kill.”

“Oh without a doubt.” Balel nodded.

“So if I might pry,” Agnimatra started to ask, “beyond rounding up some people, what has you so terrified still?”

“I took them to that Palace of Blood of theirs.” he sighed, “I was with my contract holder, I was close to where I watched their cannibal kings slit the throats of ever man, woman, and child brought to them. In their ritual, celebration, whatever you can call it. It was hardly holy, I hesitate to declare it a holy day.

“But the killings... They went on and on. Beyond people that shouldn't be slain. Not by moral, noble men. But I promised myself that day as I stood watching them collapse at the monster's blade that I should never accept a contract in Poertia again, that I should avoid those mountains. I see what happens to captors, I do not want to be destroyed like a cow or a sheep.

“So when it was done, and I had my gold, I fled. But here I am, drawing close again to that wretched kingdom.”

Agnimatra nodded knowingly. “If it's assuring then the monastery you're going to visit is closer to Svargiaya than it is to Poertia.”

“But it's still close.”

“That it is.” Agnimatra agreed, “But you're not going alone. You won't be pray easily to any foul parties from that kingdom. So I wish you best of luck in the mountains in finding our last man.”

Balel hitched up his pack with a low sigh, and walked to the rigging. “Best of luck!” Agnimatra cheered, “I'll keep tidy affairs here at home. The many glorious Perfected Beings willing, there will be many rewards for you here.”

Hjen, Imperial Palace

“Murder! Murder!” Ajir, the younger son of Oleg II shouted out from the sunlit corridor of the palace as he knelt down beside his elder brother, who bled profusely from a knife wound that penetrated his mid-torso.

Ajir pressed his now bloodstained hands on his brother's wound, trying to block the blood from pouring out of his body. He called out again, and finally several nobles that resided in the palace rushed into the hall. They were dressed in similar decorative colorful clothing, a telltale sign of their wealth.

“What happened, my prince?” a nobleman asked, rushing to Ajir's side and kneeling before the dying emperor.

“There is an assassin! Alert the guards! No one enters or leaves the palace!” Ajir shouted at the nobles, who stood uselessly around him.

“What about the emperor?” one asked, gesturing towards Oleg III.

“I will take care of him. The capture of that assassin is more important. Now, go!” he ordered again.

As the nobles hurriedly left the corridor, Ajir returned to his dying brother, whose eyes were barely open. His body permitting, he smirked slightly.

“I'm impressed.” he mumbled. “What will you do as the next emperor?”

Ajir continued pressing down on the wound. “I thought you would figure it out. Were you suspicious?”

“Hardly. But you didn't answer my question.”

“I will do what you didn't.” Ajir explained. “I will destroy your inefficient policies and expose the true power of our nation. I will give the people a reason to be proud of Verigarde.” he proclaimed, brandishing a small pillow that he once used as a head rest.

“I wish you good luck. Where did you find someone who would wield a knife against their prince?”

“For the right price, anyone will do anything.” Ajir responded as he placed the pillow on top of his brother's face and slowly pressed down, suffocating the emperor.

Roughly 20 kilometers from Hjen, two hours later

As the sun set in the west, large gusts of wind peacefully buffeted the long blades of unkempt grass that billowed restlessly in the softly rolling hills of the north-lands. In the far distance, through the light mist that crept down to mask the formations in the distance, was the city of Hjen. With the echo of horse hooves tracing his step, a lone rider steadily approached a band of horse-mounted men, most in military uniforms, but others dressed in fancier dress clothes. The rider stopped just short of ten meters from the leading figure.

“Prince Ajir has completed his task. If all goes according to plan, his assassin will be captured and executed, he will ascend to the throne, and what was started can be finished.” the rider reported, moving to remove the hood that shrouded his face.

“Excellent. I assume there were no witnesses?” the lead figure asked, also removing his hood to reveal his identity: Asha Temujin, a recently outcast officer of the Verigarde infantry

“he informed me of a few noblemen that were sent away. They suspect nothing. So far, our movement is invisible.” the rider then pointed towards the other soldiers behind him. “What of these men? Are they loyal?”

Temujin looked back at the thee military horsemen. “I trust all three of these men with my life. Two of them are cataphract leaders, one of which being the famous Arasen. And the other is a light cavalryman. He has miraculously recruited 200 horsemen to assist us in the assault. His contributions have been invaluable.”

Tutei cracked his knuckles. It was no easy task to convince so many of Verigarde's most loyal soldiers to agree to taking part in a coup. Unknown to soldier and civilian alike, the infantry of Hjen was transformed into a taskforce headed specifically by the emperor to carry out his own operations within the city. The infantry began performing illegal activities, including the kidnapping of Hjenni women specifically for the emperor's pleasure, the execution of family members as a form of punishment, and banishing of those who are suspected of being enemies of the emperor. The result, of course, was what was simply known as “The Movement”. A gathering of disgruntled soldiers and politicians that seek to destroy what the Infantry has become and remodel Hjen with a new emperor and a new aristocracy.

“Well, then. Excuse me, sirs, I was not aware of your statuses amongst us.” the rider apologized respectfully. “We can no longer wait. Hjen is in disarray.”

Temujin nodded. “I agree. We will not catch them at a better time. Move quickly, we must maintain the element of surprise as long as we can.”

As the leaders began moving towards the walls of the city, a small army of 500 horsemen of various disciplines moved behind them, with weapons brandished. As they grew closer and closer to the city, their speed increased, and what was once a calm trot evolved into an aggressive gallop. As Temujin expected, the main gate was left open. The army advanced through the open door, slaying the guards who desperately tried to close the gate. Temujin drew his blade and pointed it towards the imperial palace.

“Today, we take back Hjen!”

The waves beat against the hull of the gently guiding ship as it held its northerly coast. The sails full of wind bellowed out like the stomach of a pregnant woman. They carried in their cotton wombs the child of the wind which came flying across the ocean water. It carried with it the refreshing, cool salty air of being out to sea. And as the day's sun lowered over the horizon, illuminating the figure of hills laid to wait against the warm earth the vessel continued unabated.

But there was no lack of life aboard the ship's deck. The day's management drawn to a close a haggling group of sailors and princess stood around the center of the deck. Cheering and cawing as they hoisted into the air golden coins. The sheen of the metal caught the end-day sun and glowed like suns in their own right and name. From within the heady and screaming mass sang the sound of music, the light rhythmic tapping of the Tabla as it tapped out a fast and chaotic beat. The fingers danced across the tightly strung hide like swords in combat as the human drummer danced with the pair of instruments in his lap, his eyes wild and expectant as he tapped out the rhythm to the cock fight.

Forced into a gladiatorial square in the middle of the deck a pair of brightly plumed crimson and orange roosters clawed away at each other. Feathers flew as blood lashed against the deck as the two noble fowl gored into one another with the spurred ends of their feet. A wild and primal urge to kill glowed in their eyes. Their squalls and squawking of anger, fury, and of pain rose to complete the music as well as the crowd's cheering.

Sathsvitra sat crouched at the center of his circle, his eyes excited as he cheered on a bird with an irregular crown of feathers atop its head. His hands beat the floor of the ship's deck with the force of hammers, beating and drumming just over the timing pulse of the tabla drums. He licked his lips hopefully. Watching the noble combatants make jabs to slay the other in gladiatorial combat.

His competitor, a sun-kissed and ship-worked human stood equally cheering and clenching his fist at each blow delivered by the chickens. Every time a bird drew blood – no matter the one – he winced. Not in cowardice, but in fear that each blow would put down the bird of his choosing. His fingers wrapped around a sack of gold, the scars brought by work and fistfights stretched across his knuckles each and every time he flexed those thick hooks along the well worn leather purse.

There was hope in each of the gambler's eyes. A thirsty for gold and victory. They stood at the battleground each like generals watching their armies fight an even brawl. And with as long as the fight lasted there was no doubt that the winning bird would soon die itself. The tals of the drummer's design bounced in their ear, bringing to life the furious song of combat. Complete with the screech of death.

There was a sudden roar as Sathsvitra's chicken went down. With a wet squall it fell limp against the deck, twitching as blood splashed from its gouged face. An eye had been torn out from the hooked blades on the other bird's foot and now it hung desiccated and destroyed from its socket. The bird lay against the deck, exhausted and dying with heavy breaths. Cheering, the human gambler threw up his hands and cheered among a chorus of applause and excited screams. Even the tablas ceased to play as the drummer rose from his seat to applaud the victorious sailor.

“IMPOSSIBLE!” Sathsvitra roared furious as he shot up. Striding forward through the battlefield he punted the victor's bird to the side and rounded on the winner, “You cheated!” he challenged, getting into his face. His heavy fingers jabbed between his chest. The satyr prince breathed dragon fire. His cherry-hot face in the sailor's.

Balel stood by at a distance as he watched the quarrel unfold.

“Cheated!?” the sailor defended himself, “No m'lord, it is I who had the best bird! Not you! That is simply that!”

“I refuse to believe.” Sathsvitra grunted, continuing his accusations, “I saw something funny about that bird of yours. You pulled a trick! You cheated!”

The other sailors backed off. Some among them were afraid and quacking. Balel watched a burly Bandara step back. The two's eyes met and they exchanged knowing nods. But many, though driven back by sudden shock did not have the same level of anxiety as the others, but quickly came to realize there was another path to making money.

“And fuck your mother's tits!” the sailor declared triumphantly, placing his hands on the prince's shoulders and pushing him back.

On the far side of the deck Balel spotted Gopda. Sathsvitra's more distantly reserved brother looked on. But as he crossed his arms as he leaned against the deck railing he gave no impression of looking to interfere. He – like everyone else – was going to let this play out.

“Fifteen Rupees on Babi.” offered the Bandara as he trudged to Balel's side.

“Likewise on Sathsvitra.” Balel matched in a dry tone. He held out a hand and the two shook.

“You will not taint my honor!” Sathsvitra roared. His voice seemed to shake the very ocean air. And even if by chance, the wind died briefly as his boisterous wrath.

“Then I will!” Babi shouted back, throwing a hand into the air, “And I will taint you when I put you to the floor!” he declared. He rushed forward, but made no more than two steps before Sathsvitra swung, decking the sailor in the face and scattering him to the ground. The sound of crunching bone ground the air with a streamer of fresh, immediate blood.

With a hard meaty 'umph' Babi hit the ship's deck. Hands held tight to his face to fight off a river of blood that was flowing from between his fingers. He screamed incomprehensibly into his hands as Sathsvitra stood over him.

The sailor rolled on the deck, caressing his broken face. The prince stood over him, scowling. His heavy horse tail swept back and forth much like a cat's. “Sathsvitra!” Gopda shouted over to him. The majestic brother walked across to him. Now things were silent and only the sound of his hooves could be heard, “Stop here, head to the cabin.” he ordered.

For a tense minute it looked like the two princes were going to brawl. And in that tense certain moment the Bandara leaned over to offer another bet. “As you wish.” Sathsvitra conceded calmly. But his calm was merely the eye of a storm, held in place by restraint. His words were tense and stressed, spoken behind clenched teeth. Without ceremony he turned from the broken sailor and walked off, much to the awe of the onlookers. Gopda watched him from alongside where the brief exchange had turned to blood.

The Bandara nodded, and handed Balel a handful of coin. “Good fight.” he said meekly, and stomped off with his heavy, apish gait.

Balel gave a small smile as he counted the new coin in his hand. A satisfying – if short- victory. The deck was beginning to clear and Gopda left the broken and groaning sailor to his own miseries. “When I was told there was going to be top-side amusement I didn't imagine ring matches.” Balel observed as Gopda came over.

“Hardly, but I don't think the commoner stood a fair chance.” Gopda replied with a distant stare back, “He'll pull himself up and head back.” he said.

“You think?” asked Balel.

“Pretty certain. Then he won't get in Sathsvitra's way again.” Gopda sighed with a neutral calm, “And then he won't be gambling on this ship again when the crew has become so terrified of him.”

“Then you're not worried?” Balel asked.

“Hardly, if his wroth couldn't be fixed when he was a colt, then it will never be addressed here.” the prince nodded confidently, “There's a love of gold him in too. Dangerous, but useful for us to have.”

“How so?”

“When we get to the city, there'll be no turning him back if he can still loot something.”

“And you'll let him at it?” Balel asked, leaning back on the railings.

“Don't have a choice on the matter. And he can only carry so much. He knows that much. But it doesn't make him a bhikku yet.”