Chapter 11: Maralon

***ARAN – Maralon, Capital of Ekistair***

Aran had thought Ironshire was impressive when he first saw it, but Maralon would swallow Ironshire ten times over! He tried not to gawp as he threaded his way down one of the wide, cobbled avenues through the bustling throngs of citizens going about their day.

He wove through the crowds as smoothly as he could, wishing he could use his vala to enhance his senses. At the very least, it would save him from being jostled so thoroughly. Amina’s warning repeated itself in his mind, however, keeping him erring on the side of caution.

Jostling aside, he tried to refrain from gawking too much; being from the country, he’d never seen this many buildings in one place, let alone the thousands of people all living practically on top of each other.

The houses and other buildings were mostly all brick, three or four stories tall and narrow, with dark-tiled sloping roofs. A forest of countless chimneys left the smell of wood smoke hanging thick in the air. It was still early; the sun had been up for barely an hour and breakfast fires would still be alight.

Horses and carts aplenty populated the streets, sometimes knocking down an unwary pedestrian. Most times the drivers offered nothing in the way of apology, as if it were simply a matter of course. Shopkeepers cried their wares loudly beneath their awnings while smiths, wheelwrights and other craftsmen and women further added to the cacophony with the ring of metal on metal or the knocking of hammer on wood.

The people here seemed to favour dark clothing, Aran had found. Many of the men wore black cloaks and strange cylindrical hats with high tops. Walking canes were popular, too, even though most of their bearers appeared not to need them. The local fashion was completed by strange beards that left their upper lips bare, or bushy sideburns that ended just before the chin.

The women wore bonnets, usually of a dark hue, with their dresses a slightly lighter brown, or red, or blue, with wide skirts that seemed ungainly in these crowded streets, but fashion rarely made practical sense, as Aran understood it.

He stopped when he came to an intersection of two major avenues. In the centre was an elaborate circular fountain ten paces across supporting a twenty-foot tall statue of a robed man standing proudly, chin held high and hands folded over his chest. The sculptor had been good; the man’s face was carved in enough detail to show a decidedly pious expression.

A man standing on the edge of the fountain caught his attention. Wearing a rather garish yellow cloak with red trim, he was surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, all of whom were listening avidly to his words.

“And that is why the Order needed to be destroyed!” The fellow said, addressing the crowd in a loud voice and making grand gestures with his hands. “To protect good folks like yourselves from the corruption and filth that they perpetrated!”

A few folk cheered, others clapped as Aran slowed to listen, standing off to the eastern side of the fountain, out of the speaker’s line of sight.

“The arohim claimed to be servants of a God!” The man continued, the light of zeal unmistakable in his eyes. “And yet, rather than serving the good people of the world, they built grand temples and monuments to openly display their arrogance and ill-gotten wealth, all the while engaging in sordid rituals of the flesh! Decadence and lust were their ways, and many innocent folk fell prey to their enticing and seductive teachings!”

Aran couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had half a mind to step forward right now and set this fellow straight! If it weren’t for the Order, none of these people would be standing here today! Anger seethed in him, but he reluctantly let it go; a confrontation here would surely have no positive outcome, especially with all these people so keenly heeding this man’s tirade.

“The Heralds of Dawn are dedicated to the protection of ordinary folk from such things ever occurring again!” The man continued. “Yes, we successfully destroyed the Order, but we must have measures in place to prevent another force from ever taking it’s place! We are petitioning the Council for further power to carry out these measures as we speak! Do we have your support?”

Cheers erupted from the crowd, which had doubled in size since Aran had arrived. Their reaction concerned him no small measure; if the people really believed the Order was corrupt and evil, it would be that much more difficult to restore their faith in Aros.

Unwilling to risk being discovered, he turned and slipped through the crowd, disappearing into the flow of the city.

A little later, Aran was standing in front of a fruit cart, perusing the somewhat shriveled merchandise. The proprietor was cheerfully trying to engage him in conversation, but Aran was distracted by something, offering only noncommittal responses.

Upon approaching the cart, something had resonated inside him, humming in time with his vala for the briefest second before disappearing. Not a minute later, it had appeared again and then vanished again just as quickly. It was something he had only felt in the presence of other arohim, but this felt different; it was a weak, fitful pulse, where Elaina, Smythe or Amina would radiate a strong, steady vibration. To add to the peculiarity, his vala had stopped pulling at him for the first time in the week-and-a-half since he had left Amina’s temple.

He continued to pretend looking at the apples, keeping his senses sharp, waiting for the signal to appear again. Had he not been so focused, he would have missed the scrawny hand that appeared over the side of the cart to seize an apple before whipping back out of sight. A moment later, a figure, barefooted and dressed in dirty rags – probably a boy, by the look – disappeared into a nearby alleyway.

Aran almost dropped the apple he was holding, for at the last second before he vanished ‘round the corner, the boy was surrounded by the faintest whisper of a golden glow.

The shopkeeper, unaware he had just been burgled, politely asked Aran if he was going to buy anything. Barely looking at the man, Aran pushed a coin at him before hurrying into the alley after the urchin, not having to look terribly hard to find the poor lad crouched behind a rain barrel, scoffing the wrinkled apple, juice running down his dirty chin.

The lad was underfed – perhaps dangerously so – all skin and bones as he was. He seemed unconcerned at Aran’s presence, focusing solely on devouring the fruit as fast as he could without choking. This close, Aran could feel that resonance again. If he were a betting man, he would wager that this young urchin possessed the vala, and probably had no idea.

When the boy was done, he looked up at Aran suspiciously. “What do you want?”

Aran proffered the apple he had just purchased. “Still hungry?”

The lad eyed him warily, looking hungrily at the fruit, but cautious to trust. Aran waited, a kind smile on his face.

Hunger won, and the boy snatched the apple from Aran’s hand and tucked in. When it was gone, Aran asked if he wanted any more. The boy nodded eagerly, so Aran returned to the cart and bought three more apples, all as wrinkled as the other.

Sitting down opposite the hungry lad, Aran tossed him another apple, asking a question as he did. “What’s your name?”

“Sara,” he replied around a mouthful.

“Did you say Sara?” After getting a nod of confirmation, Aran blurted, “You’re a girl?”

“Yes!” Sara shot back around a mouthful. “Is that a problem or something?” She glared at him in challenge.

Upon closer inspection, Aran noticed the shape of the ‘boy’s’ cheekbones, chin and nose, which could most definitely belong to a girl, as could the long, matted brown hair framing that dirty face. Startling cornflower-blue eyes contrasted sharply with the grime. Reassessing, Aran placed Sara’s age at seventeen or eighteen.

“No! Not at all!” Aran said, trying not to sound defensive. “I’m sorry, Sara, I meant not to be rude.”

“Yes, well,” Sara began, acid on her tongue. “I meant not to live on the street and starve to death, but look what’s happening.”

Aran looked down at his hands. He was still clutching an apple in each one. He was uncertain what to say next, but then Sara spoke again, this time in a gentler tone.

“I’m sorry, stranger,” she said sincerely. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. Thanks for the grub, and for not selling me out to that shop keeper. He caught me once, and it was ... bad.” She left the details of the capture open to Aran’s imagination. He decided he didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“Aran,” he responded warmly, tossing her another apple. “My name is Aran.” She snagged the apple from the air and this time ate at a more leisurely pace.

“So, what can I do for you, Aran?” Sara asked between bites. “Aside from eating all your food?” She smiled for the first time, showing a genuine warmth shining out from beneath the dirt on her face.

Aran returned the smile. “Well, Sara, you can listen for a minute or two.” She looked back expectantly while her jaw worked on the fruit. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you have a very special gift.”

“Yup, I know,” she said with a grin.

“You know?” Aran asked incredulously. “How long have you known?”

“About a year or two, I reckon,” she said nonchalantly, nibbling around the core to get every last bit of flesh. “At first I thought I was normal, but then the other urchins said that they’ve never seen nobody filch food like me, and I’ve never been caught, so I figure I’ve got a gift.”

Aran felt like burying his face in his palm. “No, Sara, that’s not what I meant. You actually have a very rare, and very powerful gift. I have the same gift, which is why I followed you back here from the street. I felt it inside you just before you stole that apple, and I can feel it inside you now.”

Sara just stared back at him blankly.

Aran kept trying. “Haven’t you ever felt different from the people around you?”

Sara looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “All the time.”

Hope rose in Aran that she was seeing his point, but it deflated when she continued with an angry light in her eyes. “I feel different every time I see them!” She threw a skinny arm toward the street, taking in the people passing. “Going to their homes every night, to their families and their fireplaces and their warm beds!” Her voice cracked at her last words and tears brimmed in her eyes.

Aran’s heart went out to the poor girl. “Sara,” he said gently. “Do you find that since I sat down with you, you’ve felt more comfortable in my presence with each moment? As if we’ve known each other for years?”

She dashed her tears away, streaking the dirt on her face before looking at him. After a moment, she nodded slowly. “Yeah, I reckon I do, now that you’ve said that. I didn’t notice before – I was too hungry – but now that I think of it, I normally make a habit of staying clear of strangers, yet here I am talking with you.”

Aran nodded, understanding. “It’s one of the many benefits of the gift we share. If you were to learn to use it, you would find yourself living a much different, much more meaningful life.”

“Different how? Meaningful how?” Curiosity painted her dirt-caked face.

Aran met her gaze, pondering how to begin explaining this to her. He thought back to his first lesson with Elaina, when she had told him about his true purpose. He decided that it would be best done in more comfortable surroundings.

“I have an idea,” he said finally. “You help me find the place I’m searching for, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. You can either believe me or not, that’s up to you. Either way, you’ll get to be in out of the cold, and I’ll wager a hot meal may even be involved.”

Sara thought for a moment, her eyes searching his face. “Agreed,” she said, rising to her feet. “On one condition.”

Aran cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I get that last apple.”

With a chuckle, he handed her the last apple before standing and fishing a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “I take it you know the city well?”

“Like the back of my hand.”

“Excellent. I need to find a house, or a shop, or some place that displays this symbol.” He held up the paper, which displayed a sketch of the sunburst of Aros; a solid circle radiating sinuous lines. “It might be discreet, but it would be visible to someone looking for it.”

Sara studied the symbol, a thoughtful expression on her face as she chewed on her fourth apple. Suddenly, recognition bloomed. “I’ve seen that before! It’s sometimes hanging in the window of Sorla’s house!”

“Sorla?”Aran inquired. “Who is Sorla?”

“She’s a half-Orc that lives over in the East Quarter. A herbalist. She patched me up once when I took a tumble and hurt my leg. Gave me some herbs to help with the healing. Tasted horrible, but I sure healed up quick!”

Aran felt a rush of excitement. “Can you take me there now?”

“Yup!” Sara said cheerfully, tossing the finished apple core over her shoulder with a grin. “Follow me!”

***MALOTH – Ruins of Angavar, Palistair***

Some time ago, Kreya had led them underground, into what she said had once been the vast network of sewers beneath the ancient city of Angavar. Maloth and Shenla rode at the fore, Shenla shrouded in her cloak so as not to draw a crowd with the scandalous array of leather straps to which she’d taken such a shine.

Kreya sat in front of Maloth, her back pressed firmly to his chest while Barrog and Glinda trailed their masters alone. Torvin and the other two Mor’tirith had peeled off soon after they’d entered the underground, having other business to attend.

The stone tunnels had been maintained, judging by their look, in a state of far better repair than the ruins above. Torches lined the walls, which were either intact or had been patched, as were the ceilings, which were more than high enough for a Noroth to stand in.

A black-cloaked Warden passed them with two thralls in tow. He shot a strange look at Kreya as she passed, riding with Maloth as she was. Maloth cocked an eyebrow at the fellow, or more accurately, his company; his undead minions were she-Elves, tall and lithe and very naked, their bodies slim and graceful even in death.

Their skin was the pale grey shade of the pre-dawn sky, and their eyes were all white, devoid of irises or pupils. They were hauntingly beautiful, Maloth had to admit. He made a mental note to see if Kreya could create some of these creatures for his household; they would make very attractive servants and they would be easily disposed of if their use ended.

Kreya said that the Wardens hoped to rebuild the city one day, as a haven for those who wished to practice the darker arts in safety. Since binding her, Maloth had learned a lot from her about her people. The Mor’tirith were scattered after the War, and all Wardens left alive went into hiding. Eventually, a small cluster regrouped and migrated across the sea to Palistair. Soon after, they discovered Angavar, an abandoned city which held corpses aplenty in its huge graveyard, and no living to perturb the Wardens.

Raising undead thralls as they required – they called them ‘Risen’ -- they slowly began to recover, creating a home underground in the tunnels beneath the city. Once they had chosen a new queen – Kreya’s mother, Morin – covert messages were sent out to all corners of the land, calling home any surviving Wardens of the Dead. Several had answered, and returned to join their brethren.

Kreya said that currently there were less than fifty in the coven, with roughly one-hundred and fifty risen dead at their service.

Another of Kreya’s fellows passed them in the tunnel, this one a woman with a large Orc trailing behind. It was male, and bore the same skin tone as the Elves that Maloth had seen earlier. It wore only a crude loincloth which failed to completely conceal the appendage swinging between its legs as it shambled along. Kreya nodded at the woman as she passed, getting a nod in return.

Barrog, striding along at the rear of the group, growled in his throat – probably at seeing one of his kin enslaved so – until Shenla shot him a look, quieting him. Glinda, perhaps feeling for Barrog, nudged her horse over and gave him a comforting pat on his broad shoulder, having to reach up a little despite her being on horseback and Barrog being on foot.

“Do not console him, Glinda,” Maloth ordered without looking at the Dwarf. “He is Shenla’s, now, and all former loyalties and ties are severed. He would do well to remember that.” It was a warning; Barrog was a very useful tool, but Maloth would remove his head in a blink if he became a liability. It would cause Shenla no small amount of pain, but unnecessary risks could not be accepted.

“Yes, my Lord,” Glinda replied meekly, moving her horse away.

At Kreya’s indication, he turned Shadow to the right, down a connecting tunnel. Immediately, he noticed an increase in activity. More black-cloaked figures moved up and down this tunnel, appearing and vanishing through smaller openings. Most of them were accompanied by various forms of Risen, some carrying heavy objects, others clearly just along for show and dressed to draw the eye, or not dressed at all, in some cases.

Kreya said it was something of a status among her folk to have the most beautiful or attractive servants, which is why they were so often on display. It wasn’t just the men, either. A few women had passed with muscular or otherwise attractive male minions, their assets revealed to all who looked. And, of course, there were the men and women that seemed to favour minions of the same sex, and for the same reasons.

One scrawny fellow had even raised a Giant! The diminutive Warden was happily perched on the shoulder of the Norothi, fifteen feet off the ground as she strode down the tunnel wearing nothing but a few scant scraps of cloth covering her lower half and her titanic breasts.

Apparently, the more powerful the Warden, the better quality the resurrection, meaning a more intact original body. The most powerful of them could animate dead that could communicate, and even have some memory of their former life, according to Kreya.

As the party rode deeper into the busy tunnel, Maloth noticed that guards were stationed about in the form of hulking Risen brutes of Orc or Troll or Ogre stock, carrying truncheons or cudgels and placed at strategic points in the passageway. The guard saturation thickened as the party approached an iron gate set into the stone, before which a beautiful Risen Elf stood.

White hair whispered down her shoulders and back, and ghostly eyes aimed at them as she smiled. This was the first Risen that Maloth had seen with an expression on its face.

“Welcome, Lady Kreya,” the Elf said, bowing respectfully. Her voice sounded oddly distant, as if it were echoing down a long tunnel before leaving her throat. She was wearing a black robe so thin one could see straight through the fabric to the very generously curved body beneath.

Maloth knew that the older an Elf woman was, the shapelier she became, which would put this particular specimen easily at over three hundred years, if his own Elf, Ellerion, was anything to go by. Ellerion was over five hundred, and possessed even greater curves than this Risen.

“If you please,” the Elf continued. “Her Highness, Queen Morin, will receive you and your companions.” She turned, showing her ample bottom, and gestured to the two massive Ogres standing on either side of the gate. They obediently pulled it open, allowing the party to follow the Elf through.

“She will be glad to receive you, I think,” Kreya whispered as they passed through. “Though you should be warned; she is rather full of herself at times, and can be prickly.”

Maloth slipped a hand inside Kreya’s cloak and palmed her breast possessively in response. “Leave the queen to me, Kreya. I will handle her.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she sighed as his finger circled her nipple through her cloth wrap.

The Elf guide led them to where the tunnel opened up into a large chamber with a dais at the opposite end, atop which sat an elaborate throne made all of bones. The skulls of various creatures adorned the arms and back. To either side of the throne, a Risen Orc stood, huge and muscular, their features identical even down to the massive organs hanging between their naked thighs. Shenla was eyeing them with interest.

A Human woman lounged atop the throne, one leg crossed over the other, wearing a robe similar to the Elf, except that hers bore an intricate framework of bones with trinkets dangling from it, fanning out in an arc between her shoulder blades, the peak sitting just above her head.

She was beautiful, if a little severe of expression, and there was much of Kreya in her features. Maloth placed her in her middle years, perhaps a little less. Her slim body still looked fit and attractive and her modest breasts were devoid of sag, easily visible through her thin robe. Her raven hair was lightly touched with grey at the temples, and her eyes were pale blue augurs, the same shade as Kreya’s.

Looks aside, Morin’s presence was impressive, dominating the room as she leaned forward. “You have returned, daughter,” she addressed Kreya, who quickly vacated the saddle. “I grew concerned when you did not return last night.”

Kreya bowed deeply. “Mother, I am sorry to have concerned you. I assure you, I was quite safe.”

“Indeed,” Morin said flatly. “Word has reached me of your companions. It came as a great surprise to me to learn that the children of Morgeth the Corruptor survived the purge, and have conveniently arrived on our doorstep.”