The blaze of the two suns of Akkad electrified the morning sky with wide strokes of crimson and saffron, streaked with fuchsia and indigo all parading off the puffs of white cumulus cotton in the sky. Vicq stood in the empty bazaar, as he did every morning, watching the sunrise behind the statue of Dvergr, Warlord Kælerus’ ancient forefather. Between he and the suns a mountain range in far east crept along the horizon looking like the black jagged spine of the mythical garğ. The heavy-footed stomp of someone wearing tiny bells came up behind him.
“Boy,” Vicq mumbled as the boy approached him.
“Good morning, Father. How do you always know who someone is without seeing them?” the 16-year-old boy asked. He was as tall as his father but not yet as muscular. Like Vicq, the boy had long, black hair. His arms and legs were hairy but only a tiny patch of darkening hair decorated his otherwise smooth chest and stomach.
“Because I pay attention,” Vicq said never taking his eyes off the sky.
“I pay attention,” the boy retorted.
Vicq snorted. “Yeah, you pay attention alright. You pay attention to girls and food.” Vicq glanced at his son and shook his head. “I use my ears to listen. You walk heavy and fast, stomping your heels with every step. I smell the lavender oil you apparently bathe in hoping it will make the girls like you.” Vicq flicked Vagra on the ear.
“Owww,”
Vicq groaned. He heard a sound and cocked his head to the side then grabbed his son’s wrist. “Quiet. Listen.”
Vagra moved his head slightly and Vicq clamped down on his wrist.
“Do not move. Listen and learn,” Vic commanded. The two stood as something approached. “Do not look. Listen to the footsteps,” Vicq whispered. “How many?
Vagra closed his eyes.
“Breath through your nose and out through the mouth. Be still and hear everything around you,” Vicq instructed.
“Two people,” Vagra announced. I hear two sets of footsteps.” The boy opened his eyes and smiled.
Without opening his eyes, Vicq twisted Vagra’s wrist back and the boy went to his knees. “You are stupid. The footsteps are in sync. It is not two. It is one. An orea. If you’d just listen instead of trying to hurry, you’d know that.” Vicq released Vagra’s wrist and the boy grabbed his arm and held it to his chest as he rose.
“Master? An orea in armor stood six feet away, bowing. “The Warlord calls for you.” He handed Vicq a scroll. Vicq opened it, nodded and handed it back.
“Listen to this beast’s hooves as we walk through the city. Listen. Really listen.”
Vagra nodded, rubbing his wrist as he held it against his chest.
The two followed the orea through the city composed of organic structures of all shapes and sizes: cylindrical, rectangular and conical. Some had flat roofs and others were domed. As they made their way through the streets—toward the alcázar sitting high on a hill at the center of the city—orean slaves worked to rebuild a crumbled building. The slaves combined sand, silt and clay in the right amounts to make the perfect soil composition. Then they added water and dung and pressed it into brick forms, which were removed and allowed to dry in the shade. Narrow streets of brick curved and meandered through the city like the tunnels of an ant colony. Structures were cobbled together and on top of one another haphazardly. Just beyond the new construction an area opened up. Tents and canopies filled the public square which was not square at all. Rather, it was as meandering and organic as the streets. The sounds of dogs barking, howling, and whimpering were drowned out only by the clamoring of the gambling miscreants watching the dogs fight to the death. Vicq stopped and watched as a thick-headed dog grabbed hold of another dog’s throat and shook it to death. Hands went up and money exchanged as the winner was escorted into a tent to be doctored then returned to its kennel. He turned to his son, nodded, and moved on.
Vicq and Vagra walked up the steps of the alcázar’s entrance. Flags flying the sigils of clans and cities friendly to Warlord Kælerus hung from the alcázar’s walls displaying his reach and power. Guards standing outside the door stepped aside as the portcullis—a gate of woven metal strips with sharp, spiked ends protecting the entrance—raised then lowered again as soon Vicq and Vagra passed. They went into the Warlord’s inner chamber. The ceilings were covered with wispy fabric attached to the center of the room, then draped low before being attached to the walls and allowed to hang. Rich tapestries covered the doorways. Huge, billowy, silk pillows of all colors with tassels and fringe lounged in the room, inviting one to sit or sprawl.
In one corner, Warlord Kælerus relaxed on a pile of pillows while an young orean slave fanned him with a large woven fan. Another orean slave knelt nearby scrubbing and grating the soles of his gnarly feet with a hunk of sandstone and coarse ground sea salt mixed with lavender oil. Dead skin flaked off, floating delicately in the air and landing on the red silk pillow beneath his legs. A human slave did the same to his elbows. Kælerus was a large dwarf with thick arms and legs, taller than Erlend Andvari by three inches. He wore a raw silk toga wrapped around his waist and draped around his left shoulder, exposing his bare chest. His hair, beard and mustache were braided in locks with beads woven in. His hair was tied back behind his head. He sipped on a glass of cherries and lime muddled with mint leaves and mixed with wine and juice.
“Good morrow, Vicq!” Kælerus shouted. He waved Vicq and Vagra over and pointed to a pile of pillows. Vagra stood and watched Vicq sit first, then the boy took his place next to his father but a few inches behind.
“Greetings, milord,” Vicq said as he bowed his head. “How may I serve?”
“I have need of you, Vicq.” Warlord Kælerus glanced at a servant in the corner then back at Vicq. The child—no older than ten—made two drinks in real glass cups and placed them on a platter of figs, dates, dried bananas, hard baked pieces of bread, and a wedge of Asiago cheese.
Vicq bowed at Warlord Kælerus then looked at the child waving his hand at the drinks. “Juice only … for us both.” Vicq looked back at his warlord sprawled out onto the floor like a half dead toad. “If it pleases milord.”
“Oh come now, Vicq. It’s just a little wine.”
“If we are to serve you well, milord, then my soldiers and I need be clear of mind,” Vicq lowered his eyes. “We are not as strong as you.”
“Fine,” Warlord Kælerus said rolling his eyes. “Juice child! And quickly before my men dry up.” The girl poured new glasses for Vicq and Vagra and took the other glasses away. The warlord shooed the servants from his body and he sat up. “The deal is struck. We are ready to make our first move into Iasos.”
“Finally.” Vicq nodded and smiled.
“Indeed,” Warlord Kælerus agreed. “We will expand our empire into Iasos slowly at first. I want you to establish a base of operations. A small fort, abandoned temple, a cave. Something inconspicuous and secluded so we may establish our crime network.”
“As you command, milord,” Vicq said unable to contain his wide smile.
“We will start on the outskirts of D’wyee. I want gambling—dogfights—in every little village and township around D’wyee. I want you offering loan services to anyone who needs them, especially those who can’t pay them back. They will have to work for you to pay that debt off.”
“They’ll never pay it back,” Vicq said.
“Exactly,” Warlord Kælerus chortled. “Indentured servants who will fight for us.”
“We give them a job—a purpose—clothes, food, drink, warmth, and shelter. Teach them to fight and give them a taste for blood.”
“And they will never wish to leave my service,” Warlord Kælerus winked. “They will be loyal to us. We will build a shadow army right under their noses.”
“Then we will move from the shadows and into the light.”
“And strike down our enemies,” Warlord Kælerus laid back down on his pillows and called the servants back to their work on his body.
“It shall be done, milord.”
“Good. Send word by pigeon often,” Warlord Kælerus ordered. Update me every ten days or so.”
“Yes, milord,” Vicq nodded.
“Use our code so if it’s intercepted, we do not give away our secrets.”
“Of course, Warlord Kælerus.”
“I want you to take Zed and Maynard. They are my best dogfighters. They know the business well and will serve me and my interests.”
“As you command, milord.” Vicq stood and bowed. Vagra did the same. They turned.
“One last thing,” the warlord said. Vicq’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward his Warlord Kælerus. “Vagra stays behind.”
“But milord,” Vicq said quietly. “If it pleases you, I would like to take my son. I will gone for years. I wish to continue his training personally.”
“And I do not wish for you to be distracted by the love and duty of fatherhood,” Warlord Kælerus said as he popped some cherries in his mouth. A bit of dark red juice dribbled from his lips. “The boy remains with me. I will train him myself.” The lord smiled. “Unless you feel I am unfit.” He popped another cherry in his mouth and chewed.
You sottish, swag-bellied, codpiece! Vicq thought. Instead, he breathed deeply, forced a smile, and bowed. “You are most wise, milord.” The words cut his skin and soul. “… and generous. Thank you for taking my son into your bosom.” Vicq nudged his son.
“It will be an honor to study under your personal tutelage, Warlord Kælerus,” Vagra said as he bowed.
“By your leave, milord.” Vicq spun on his heel and left the sanctum.