Fragments of a Broken Land: Valarl Undead. Robert Hood

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      The door creaked open and the smooth, ascetic face of his brother, Ishwarin, squeezed into the gap. “What the hell are you yelling about, brother?”

      “Nothing. Sorry. I fell asleep and had a nightmare.”

      Ishwarin opened the door fully and came in. He was dressed in the formal purple and gray coat he always wore when attending the Courts. “You yelled something about Bellarroth.”

      “Did I? I’ve never heard of him.”

      “The thing is.…” Ishwarin leaned down, full of his usual earnestness—a peculiar stance that always accompanied displays of erudition. His plucked eyebrows curved into a questioning frown. “Bellarroth is a rather esoteric name. Where did you come across it?”

      Tashnark shrugged. “This water’s cold. Do you mind?” He stood in the bath, letting the water slough off him.

      His brother stepped back to let him get at his towel. “It’s part of an ancient tale.”

      “Tale?”

      “About the end of the world. Do you know it?”

      Tashnark dried himself, shoving Ishwarin aside whenever he got in the way of his elbows. The floor tiles felt cold and unpleasant under his feet.

      “It’s a very obscure thing. Legendary. Bellarroth was said to have undertaken a great journey to confront the world’s tormentor. No, wait, I’m wrong. It was not something done, but an action foretold. A prophecy—”

      “Brother!” Tashnark gestured in front of Ishwarin’s face to silence him, sensing danger. “I don’t want to know this, thanks. Save it for your better educated cronies.” He strode out, heading for his bedroom. “I don’t know anything about it and I’m quite happy to leave it that way.”

      “It’s interesting.”

      “I’m sure it is. But I don’t care.”

      Ishwarin didn’t follow him, taking his frustrated attempt to further Tashnark’s education through into the hearth-room. Tashnark dressed quickly. His mind was numb, still disturbed by fragmented images of serpent-headed trees, a roaring mountain and a fiery monster that lit up the sky. He tried not to think about it.

      Then striped light falling from outside across the crumpled surface of his bed invoked the specter of a bloodied corpse cut by vines.

      “Ishwarin!” he yelled.

      “What is it?” came his brother’s distant voice.

      “What about the name Hanin? Does that mean anything to you?”

      Silence took over for a moment, until Tashnark thought that Ishwarin hadn’t heard him. He was about to withdraw, when Ishwarin appeared at the end of the corridor.

      “There was a Hanin in Cormidthal’s court. One of the Warlord’s Inner Circle spellcasters, I think.”

      “Cormidthal?”

      “The last ruler of Mikhalin—which, in case your history’s as poor as your manners, was a great empire on the southern landmass, before it was fragmented in an apocalyptic war, oh, perhaps a thousand years ago. The Greatest War, some call it. Surely you learnt something of this from your tutors.”

      “What I learnt from my tutors wasn’t what they were trying to teach me.”

      Ishwarin’s gaunt features became more stern as they reflected his disappointment. “You’ve wasted your time, Tashnark. You always were disrespectful.”

      Tashnark held up his hand. “No lectures.”

      Ishwarin shrugged.

      “Is that all you can tell me about Hanin?”

      “I could look it up. Why? What’s your interest in him? Has this to do with Bellarroth?”

      “Just something I heard.” Tashnark waved him away. “It doesn’t matter. Hadn’t you better get going? You’re late for work.”

      “The Court sitting doesn’t start till mid-morning.” He walked toward Tashnark, a gaunt shadow in the dimness of the hallway. “You look like you could use a drink. Want to visit the Refectory?”

      “I drank quite enough last night.”

      “Something non-alcoholic then?”

      Dream-residue struck Tashnark suddenly and he staggered, leaning against the wall so that Ishwarin wouldn’t notice. Heat and tempest around him. The corpse of Hanin a bloody skeleton, little flesh remaining on the bones. Even as he watched he could see that the mesh in which Hanin was trapped sucked the moisture from what remained of his body. Too late! Too late!

      “Are you still drunk?” asked his brother.

      The image of dead Hanin was replaced by that of a living woman. The woman from the tavern last night. She reached out and beckoned to him.

      Tashnark shook the visions aside. Damn it! “No, just a bit dizzy. Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about anyway. Maybe you can give me some advice.”

      “Me? Advise you?” Ishwarin raised an elegantly curved eyebrow. “This is a turnaround.”

      “Don’t get cocky. The world’s aging and so am I. Come on!” He grabbed his brother’s bony arm and bustled him toward the front door.

      * * * *

      The Refectory—originally established by the Shaa-Derthperrit Temple as an eating place for magic-workers who, for one reason or another, had fallen on hard times, but long since having become a fashionable secular meeting-place for locals—wasn’t very busy at this time of the day. Its high roof and compartmentalized architecture, however, created complex patterns of light and shadow that always gave the impression of quiet occupancy. Ishwarin never objected to coming here, even though the richness of his purse predisposed him to more upmarket venues. On the other hand, it had always been a favorite of Tashnark’s. It suited him when the louder egotism of the district’s innumerable taverns didn’t appeal, or when he felt like talking. He liked the way its internal skeleton of wooden pillars and carved ribbing evoked a living presence. Even when there were musicians playing, it was a quiet, contemplative place.

      Ishwarin called for hot drinks made of crushed ocar beans and nuts—to Tashnark it was an anemic scholar’s drink, but he accepted the gesture. Suddenly hungry, he added bread, cheese and crispy bacon to the order.

      “So what’s on your mind?” Ishwarin started right in, once the attendant was gone. His curiosity was patent. “Is this something serious?”

      “Serious? Have you ever known me not to be serious?”

      “It’s about our mother, is it?”

      Ishwarin had always had a profound love for Eresteyin that he never offered to his real mother, their father’s current wife. Strictly speaking, Tashnark and he were only half-brothers, though they didn’t think of themselves that way. Ishwarin’s actual home was far across the City, in the Old Gorim district—the СКАЧАТЬ