The Long Road Home; Prelude
On the first day of winter; a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Nulen?s southern sea whipped weather could provide; the Xin?dranis Cabal, elite sorcerers and assassins trained by The Black Hand itself, crept around the barracks estate held by the pretenders to their name and defilers of all what the Cabal stood for.
Supported by regiments of a local warlord , Jubal, and less quotidian allies-wraiths of the Abyss lent to the cabalists by The Black Hand itself, they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, Xin?dranian shadow-bolts and high-torque quarrels whizzing from crossbows in their hands.
By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep slaves in were now bright with blood of ersatz Xin?dranians who?d betrayed their cabalist oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.
For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the cabalists. And the elders of the Xin?dranis Cabal who cored the ruling council which had spent several months warring in foreign lands and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought all the elders of the Cabal itself, with the exception of the founder, back to the city of the Cabal?s origin, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and glory of their Cabal restored so that the Xin?dranians could once again hold their heads high in the city, or they were leaving; to find the Black Hand and lay before them their grievances.
So it was that Kyraden, the Cabal?s military commander, walked now amongst the slaughter within the barrack?s outer walls, amongst corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and house pets slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Tysirus?s field altar of hand-hewn stones, ready to offered to the god.
Isabechade walked with him, a necromancer and a member of the Black Hand responsible for the wraiths, inky eyes agleam within her hood. Kyraden had promised her something, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it; if the killing had gotten out of hand because Isabechade was here, and not because Jubal?s forces knew nothing of restraint; not to be outdone, forsaking all thoughts of proper measure once it was clear the ersatz Xin?dranians were greatly outnumbered and that they had allowed children and animals to be kept within the barrack walls on grounds consecrated to Tysirus, the god of rape and pillage.
Rape, of course, was still under way in the stables and in the long row of barracks. Kyraden saw Isabechade turn her head away at the piteous cries of women who?d been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldier?s tithe.
Around them Jubal?s soldiers ran to and fro, heavy sacks of gleaming tack upon their shoulders; pillaging had begun.
Kyraden didn?t move to stop the stealing or the defilement of the luckless few who?d been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was the ranking officer and it was his burden of command, even when, as now, he didn?t like it.
Jyalath, Kyraden?s absent partner and founder of the Cabal, might have foreseen and forestalled the moment when Jubal?s troops bloodthirsty nature surfaced and blood began to spill like Tysirus?s rains or a whore?s tears.
But he hadn?t. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he tried to stop them he?d lose his command, he?d had to let the bloodlust work through the assault force like dysentery works through those fool enough to dink from southern rivers.
Isabechade knew his pain; her hand was on his arm. But the tzmisce necromancer was wise; she said not one word to the Cabal?s chief interrogator and commander as they came upon Ryendal, the Tyriolian shaman who was the only magical ally besides herself the Cabal tolerated; quartering a dog to roast and bury at the barrack?s compass points.
?For luck, witch?? Kyraden growled to Ryendal and Ishachade relaxed. ?It?s hardly lucky for that pup.? Kyraden?s eyes leveled slowly upon the shaman. ?Have you managed to locate the drow, the bastard we left to protect our interests in this city??
?No milord, it seems the coward Devir was warned about our plans and left the city.? Ryendal smirked to the Xin?dranian commander. ?No need to worry though, milord. He can?t hide from us for that long. Our agents are already tracking his path to the west.?
On the first day of winter; a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Nulen?s southern sea whipped weather could provide; the Xin?dranis Cabal, elite sorcerers and assassins trained by The Black Hand itself, crept around the barracks estate held by the pretenders to their name and defilers of all what the Cabal stood for.
Supported by regiments of a local warlord , Jubal, and less quotidian allies-wraiths of the Abyss lent to the cabalists by The Black Hand itself, they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, Xin?dranian shadow-bolts and high-torque quarrels whizzing from crossbows in their hands.
By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep slaves in were now bright with blood of ersatz Xin?dranians who?d betrayed their cabalist oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.
For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the cabalists. And the elders of the Xin?dranis Cabal who cored the ruling council which had spent several months warring in foreign lands and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought all the elders of the Cabal itself, with the exception of the founder, back to the city of the Cabal?s origin, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and glory of their Cabal restored so that the Xin?dranians could once again hold their heads high in the city, or they were leaving; to find the Black Hand and lay before them their grievances.
So it was that Kyraden, the Cabal?s military commander, walked now amongst the slaughter within the barrack?s outer walls, amongst corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and house pets slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Tysirus?s field altar of hand-hewn stones, ready to offered to the god.
Isabechade walked with him, a necromancer and a member of the Black Hand responsible for the wraiths, inky eyes agleam within her hood. Kyraden had promised her something, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it; if the killing had gotten out of hand because Isabechade was here, and not because Jubal?s forces knew nothing of restraint; not to be outdone, forsaking all thoughts of proper measure once it was clear the ersatz Xin?dranians were greatly outnumbered and that they had allowed children and animals to be kept within the barrack walls on grounds consecrated to Tysirus, the god of rape and pillage.
Rape, of course, was still under way in the stables and in the long row of barracks. Kyraden saw Isabechade turn her head away at the piteous cries of women who?d been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldier?s tithe.
Around them Jubal?s soldiers ran to and fro, heavy sacks of gleaming tack upon their shoulders; pillaging had begun.
Kyraden didn?t move to stop the stealing or the defilement of the luckless few who?d been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was the ranking officer and it was his burden of command, even when, as now, he didn?t like it.
Jyalath, Kyraden?s absent partner and founder of the Cabal, might have foreseen and forestalled the moment when Jubal?s troops bloodthirsty nature surfaced and blood began to spill like Tysirus?s rains or a whore?s tears.
But he hadn?t. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he tried to stop them he?d lose his command, he?d had to let the bloodlust work through the assault force like dysentery works through those fool enough to dink from southern rivers.
Isabechade knew his pain; her hand was on his arm. But the tzmisce necromancer was wise; she said not one word to the Cabal?s chief interrogator and commander as they came upon Ryendal, the Tyriolian shaman who was the only magical ally besides herself the Cabal tolerated; quartering a dog to roast and bury at the barrack?s compass points.
?For luck, witch?? Kyraden growled to Ryendal and Ishachade relaxed. ?It?s hardly lucky for that pup.? Kyraden?s eyes leveled slowly upon the shaman. ?Have you managed to locate the drow, the bastard we left to protect our interests in this city??
?No milord, it seems the coward Devir was warned about our plans and left the city.? Ryendal smirked to the Xin?dranian commander. ?No need to worry though, milord. He can?t hide from us for that long. Our agents are already tracking his path to the west.?