Chapter 7: Neghast

Neghast, ancient brooding Neghast. Two thousand years ago the God-King Woolan had destroyed the mighty, lofty towers of the Sorcerers of the Ring of Fire. Two thousand years, but the people of Neghast remembered and did not rebuild the towers.

A thousand years ago the Basalt Lighthouse had risen from the churning sea in the harbor to cast its greenish death-light on the Yellow Sea and the ramshackle wooden wharfs. A thousand years, but the people of Neghast remembered and did not venture out in their boats when the death-light was lit.

Five hundred years ago there had been the Autumn of The Plague, when the fumes of lethal poison almost laid the city waste. Five hundred years, but the people of Neghast remembered and they did not enter the neighborhood of the Pit willingly.

Three hundred years ago the Demons of Lust stole the fairest maidens of the city, making the streets wet and slippery with the blood of the innocents. Three hundred years, but the people of Neghast remembered, and the women still wore black, heavy robes and veils covering their fair countenances

A hundred years ago the Brotherhood of Malice had taken over the night in the narrow alleys over which the tall gray buildings loomed. A hundred years, but the people of Neghast still remembered and never ventured out in the dark hours but in company of others, and the men were required to always carry the Kahj, the curved dagger, upon pain of twenty strokes of the lash.

Ten years ago the ships of Magria the Sorcerer had sailed, ghostly and still, into the harbor on a windless night. Ten years, but the people of Neghast still remembered, for the twisted corpses of the mariners still hung from pikes or pillories or the stocks where they had died under the harshest of tortures.

Such was the city of Neghast, clinging to life like an evil, sick, old man on the shores of the Yellow Sea. City of Alchemists and Poisoners, of worshipers of the Fanged Rat, it was ruled by the Unholy Triangle, an ever-present yet invisible force. Such was Neghast as Quaila and I and looked down on the crumbling, gray slate roofs one morning after seven days on the road, and our hearts sank. But wasn't this, I had to tell myself, was what I had sought, what I wanted to fight against? Wicked deeds, evil arts; they were all practiced here to great consternation for their fellow men both inside and outside of the city.

A week ago we had left our campsite, heading eastward seeking the well-trodden path that followed the Rawon on its almost straight course for the Sea, before later crossing to the east bank by wading the fords at Ewood with the help of our combined patience and a long staff. We could not have done it if Quaila had not been somewhat surer of foot now. She also managed to walk long distances without pausing, her naked feet seemingly oblivious to the rough gravelly dirt they trod on.

But she could not travel without my support, not yet at least. In some strange manner, I cannot describe how enjoyable that was, to always have her arm linked with mine, to feel that I was strong and needed...

As we walked, we talked. We discussed everything, from ourselves, the trees, birds, and creatures around us, and the lands where we were headed. Quaila always had a quick reply at hand, she smiled constantly, and would give me sideways looks that sent my blood boiling. Slowly I came to realize a few things. One was that I was falling in love, rapidly and deeply. The other was that Quaila revealed almost nothing about herself. She cunningly averted all my questions. The woman, magical as she was, was an enigma. The loveliest enigma ever to cross my path.