image [https://i.imgur.com/8ZaLTxu.png]
CHAPTER XV:
The Alflayir
Evening,
28 Flamestar 1011,
The Age of Night
21 Days until the Night of the Moon
Qamadi Foothills, The Sultanate of Nur
It was late evening, and the desert sky had painted the mesa-like mountains in the Qamadi foothills. Goats were bleating along the road as a traveler in a beautiful white Yaporgine silk robe, with a silvery breastplate and other scant armor, approached the steep trail leading up to the mountains. His horse whinnied as he pulled on the bit and stopped. An old wolen was walking with her goats.
"Please, kind lord. Will you buy one." She said in Nur.
The len pulled the face-covering that he made from the slack of his turban and whipped it out of his face, exposing his chiseled face.
"I am sorry, I am in no need of your goats."
"Not ze goats! Zey is not for sale..." She bit back, somewhat annoyed. She pulled a small bottle with red liquid inside her noticeably handmade, animal skin satchel.
"Medicine for you, my lord...?"
"Zalman." He said.
She was startled when she heard the name and bowed her head low.
"No, thank you, dear Hajirah... I am on business for his majesty, the Sultan."
He pulled out a small gold coin depicting the face of Sultan Fazil and flicked it towards her. She fumbled with the coin and scratched at the dusty rock below until she finally retrieved it. Holding the coin in front of her face, her eyes widened in admiration.
"I need to water my horse and stow her. Can you tell me who has room for me right now?"
"Yes, lord... if you lead her up ze trail... take a left through ze obening before the highlands and you will see the desirable bath which will lead to my village... an old len is zere who will water and board your horse..."
He reached for another Fenrarii and tossed it to her, disembarking his horse and proceeding up the trail.
As the sun set and the sky turned into a dark hue, the air was filled with the sound of desert critters. The terrain became increasingly rugged, with the lowlands giving way to steeper and steeper cliffs and, eventually, the jagged peaks of the Qamadi. Heeding the advice of the old wolen, Zalman followed the narrow and precarious path that veered off from the main trail through the crevasse, as the old wolen told him. He kept his hand close to his sheathed scimitar.
Suddenly, the sound of clanging wind chimes and the clattering of cloth from the tribal banners caught his attention. The vibrant colors of the banners contrasted sharply against the dark sky and barren rocks as cords between the houses strung them along. The flickering lights of the torches that hung on the side of the adobe buildings illuminated the path, guiding him toward the village.
He could see over the cliff as he became level with the village. The vast and endless dune sea of the Nur desert stretched out as far as the eye could see. On his right were barrels and wood scaffolding, creating a cover. There were horses and other beasts of burden, feasting in mangers on hay and straw. It smelled horrendous.
There was an old len, leaning on the side of the house, smoking a pipe.
"Haja, I am Lord Zalman of the Palace Guard, I need rest for my horse."
The old len stood up, dumped his pipe and urgently came to him. As he approached, Zalman saw that the len's face was more sun-beaten and wrinkled than any he had ever seen. The len was sucking in his mouth as he breathed, revealing he had no bottom teeth left. Zalman reached for a small pouch of money and handed it to the old len who put both his hands over it and bowed again and again, grateful.
Zalman put his gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
"Be blessed, Haja."
He began walking back toward the trail and out of the village.
"...Waaaaait." The old len tried to speak in Nur, clearly preferring his Qamadi dialect. "No stay? Night. Cold. Cold!"
"No, Haja, I must go to the Madrasa. Tonight."
"Madrasa, Madrasa." The old len said.
The old len took an itchy fabric cloak, put it over Zalman, and handed him a torch from his house. Zalman took the old len's hand, looked him in the eye and thanked him. The len put his hands together in a praying manner and bowed again.
Hours had melded into the deep cloak of night, and Zalman, with a firm grip on his scimitar and a torch casting an eerie glow, persevered through the rugged terrain of the highlands. The desert, known for its scorching days, surrendered to a bone-chilling cold under the moon's watchful eye. Yet, here in the elevated reaches, the air was not just cold; it was biting, an unyielding frost that paid no heed to the Flamestar's reign.
The landscape was a stark contrast to the barren sands below. Twisted plants and hardy roots clung to the crimson rocks, any trace moisture frozen within. During the milder seasons of Havenstar and Fairiestar, these mountains were normally blanketed in snow.
Zalman's breath formed small clouds as he breathed through his face covering. The stars seemed to hang low, guiding his path through the treacherous terrain as the elevation had made him seem all the more closer. Finally, well past midnight, a sight emerged from the darkness - the great tower, a monolith of ancient power and enigmatic lore.
Countless golden lights flickered in its seemingly endless windows; the ancient tower stood majestic over the Sultanate against the starlit sky. Its pinnacle reached ambitiously towards the heavens, so high that the uppermost windows blurred the line between man-made light and the natural glow of the stars. Zalman's eyes traced the tower's silhouette and finally approached its great, narrow gate that towered over him vertically over four len above his head. It was solid iron.
With force, he banged on the door thrice.
A small slit opened somewhat below Zalman's tall body, forcing him to lower his head.
"Who goes Zere?"
"Vizier, I am Captain Zalman, of the Palace Guard. I am here on intelligence from Sultan Al-Amin."
The Vizier sat up and scanned Zalman up and down, and finally, a tremendous drawn-out screeching pierced his eardrums as the tall iron door opened.
Below him was an old fat len with a hooked nose in a dark turban.
"Welcome," The Vizier said as he took him into the Madrasa.
The lobby was warm and well-lit. The walls were adorned with portraits of Viziers, Sultans, and depictions of religious figures. At the front desk was another vizier, and behind him was a great shelf covered in scrolls and papyri. A Vizier sat with a quill and ink, scribbling on a parchment. He had bifocals hanging off the narrow and bony bridge of his nose, which was the centerpiece of his long face. Behind him was a parrot in a cage, examining Zalman inquisitively, squawking once in a while.
"Lord Zalman, here on intelligence business."
"Lord Zalman, on intelligence business, squawk!" The parrot repeated as he opened the cage, letting the beautiful bird extend its wings, flying up the great expanse of the diametric void that was between the tight spiral staircase above them. A tailfeather dropped and hit the wooden desk before the Vizier, who stopped writing.
"Souvenir?" The receptionist said.
"No," He said.
"While we brebare the Library for your visit, what may I write to zem that suits your needs?"
"I need to search for a name."
"I see... so you will need zis feather after all," said the Vizier, surprised. "Clever bird... too clever. Clairvoyant."
"I'm sorry?" Zalman said. "Why will I need it?"
The Vizier looked up at Zalman, annoyed.
"We will speak the name to the parrot and let it pass through the shelves; it will search the papyri and find what you are looking for,"
"And... how can it do that?" Zalman asked
"Ze bird is enchanted," the Vizier said, annoyed, looking up briefly from his parchment and handing the tailfeather to him.
"Zis will be your quill. It will write ze name, dib it in ink and set it to the barchment."
Zalman took the feather and began to examine it, admiring its colors. It was red, giving way to purple, then blue.
"Have a seat..."
Zalman walked down to the cushions that adorned the ornate rug rolled over the sandstone floor. He lay down and shut his eyes, dozing off moments before he jolted back awake.
"Squawk! Ready for Zalman! Squawk! Ready for Zalman!"
The warrior rose and beheld the old Vizier, who walked him up the spiral staircase. As he paced through, there were many doors. The ancient sages of the Noor built the tower so that it left little space for rooms along the exterior... Zalman was always perplexed about how the Madrasa could house thousands of lens at any time.
Finally, they reached a door with a crude plaster painting of a scroll above it. The Vizier took a gold key and inserted it into the door, turning it. As he opened it, a sprawling, massive space appeared, well over five stories tall, with long narrow aisles adorned with books and scrolls. Suddenly, it donned on Zalman again why the tower was so hospitable. The doors themselves were enchanted, each leading to an arcane subspace, which allowed the Madrasa to possess room well beyond the architectural limits of the tower. They were now in an astral plane beyond Etria, between Lumenaris and Umbraneth.
The duo approached the table where a tall, dark-turbaned len with a long, greying beard turned to them, sporting a monocle. He put his long, bony hands together as if praying.
"Yes, Lord Zalman... we are pleased you are here... how may we assist our Sultan?"
"Thank you, wise lords... I need to search the parchments for a name."
"Yes, our bird revealed as much... seeing as how it gave you a feather for our... enhanced quill, already..."
"What are we inquiring of ze collection? Why do we seek zis wisdom?"
"Surely you've heard of the disturbances in the Alnujum, Lord Vizier... northern infidels are blundering the sacred valley."
The Vizier exchanged a quick, sharp look with the other and nodded sternly in understanding.
"It must be... ze delinquent!" He said hurriedly to the other Vizier, who was quickly pulling out small scrip of parchment, finding a surface to write on.
"I beg your pardon?" Said Zalman.
"Two or so months ago, Lord Zalman... ze reliquary was robbed."
Zalman curled his eyebrows, and his jaw dropped slightly.
"What?" He said. "Why were we not informed? I am the Sultan's head of intelligence!! You are to report everything to me!!"
The two viziers looked at one another again, concerned.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"My lord, you must listen. Ze relic ze delinquent stole was... religious... we didn't want to stir ze beoble."
"What?" He said. "What was stolen?"
"It doesn't matter... what mat-ters is... we had a student disappear. A Rajari."
Zalman's eyes widened, and he hurriedly pulled out a small string bound journal from a pouch hanging from his belt.
"Here." The fat Vizier said, giving him his already inked quill. "
"We will do all zat is in our power to assist you, Zalman. Before we send the bird... let us see what we can tell you of his name."
"Good." Said Zalman, who pulled out a small scrip of parchment from a pouch that hung from his belt over his thigh. He consulted it briefly, then said the name.
"Ithandacar." He said, blinking, then looking back at the Vizier.
The Vizier scrunched his thick eyebrows.
"Ithandacar you say?" He began to stroke his beard with his bony hand, he looked at the short, stout Vizier and they both nodded at one another in some form of nonverbal communication.
"That name is Mystish." the tall one said.
"Yes, Mystish." Said the fat one, concurring.
"I see..." said Zalman. "That complicates things... This is perplexing then... we are looking for a band of Rajari and the Fioran dogs."
"Ze name means 'Son of Ithand'," Said the short fat one.
"A lezzon, Zalman." He cleared his throat. "In ages bast, ze northern infidels would have ze name of the father blus 'gar' to follow. As the many moons have passed, ze names have become 'car', which means, 'son of'"
"I see."
The short, fat Vizier began to whisper to the parrot, then sent it flying.
"Bleaze, sit."
Nearly half an hour passed, and the parrot finally returned from one of the aisles, carrying several parchments, it dropped them on the table in front of Zalman and perched itself on the corner, squawking.
The Vizier fed the bird a small treat.
Zalman immediately started scanning the documents.
"These... are..." As he moved through them, he handed them to the other Viziers.
"Blank?" He said.
"Hoho..." said the tall vizier. "No, lord Zalman... take the quill."
He handed him an inkwell.
"Dib it."
Zalman dipped the quill in ink and put the quill to the parchment; suddenly, the quill left his hand, and he began to write a script with blazing speed. It was producing an exact replica of the documents the parrot had ostensibly seen.
"Reborts from our spies, fifteen years old." Said the short one.
"Reports... concerning?" Zalman said to himself, stroking his well-groomed beard.
"Zerr revolution." The tall one said in a monotone, matter-of-fact voice.
"These report of a band called Hellfangs. Observed years 998-999... in ze nation of Arlia... later with the woodslen in Drümmarg..."
The two viziers nodded.
"We heard of zis before."
Zalman snapped his fingers, after tracing it across the script.
"Here. Ithandacar." He said. "He is named among members of this group."
"And there is one such member..." Said Zalman, as he began to squint with a determined, serious face.
"Called by our len... 'Alflayir'"
The two viziers looked at one another.
"Ze Flayer?"
"The identity is unknown. It could be... any of these names... Venzicar, Minsz, Critz, or Ithandacar himself."
"Here... look at zese..." The short Vizier remarked.
The quill began to write over it, producing a certificate of baptism into the religion of Yol... for an 'Íbolín Ithandacar', adopted son of a 'Tal Odcar' in a Fioran town called Wesenra. Another enchanted parchment page flew to the quill's nib and, after dipping itself in the inkwell again, it began writing at blazing speeds again.
It was a notice of expulsion from the Fioran Military academy, addressed concerning a student who went missing during the Feast of Foolery Riots in Fairiestar 983... the student never returned... again, Zalmar saw the name, Íbolín Ithandacar.
"Well... now we have the first name... Íbolín."
The Viziers looked puzzled.
"How odd." They said. "Zat name... is a Rabani name."
"Rabani?" Zalman said.
"Zose infidel mutts." He said. "Our... wandering ancestral... cousins, I regret to say..."
"What about the father?" Said Zalman. "This... Odcar fellow is not the name you said... Is there any way your bird can find anything on the name you said?"
Zalman blinked in thought for a moment, then quickly pulling the name from his steel-trap memory.
"Ithand." He said. "What of that name you said, Ithand?"
The two viziers laughed.
"No, my lord Zalman... Ithand is a common len's name among Mystalen. Ze bird would tire and return... ze search would be... unfruitful."
"I see." He said.
They continued to pass the documents around for hours until finally, they had exhausted everything.
"Well." Zalman mused. "While we cannot be certain... Íbolín Ithandacar seems to be the identity of Alflayir... likely."
"Bah..." Said Zalman, leaning in his chair. "There must be more."
The two viziers were collecting the documents, rolling them back up as scrolls, placing them in a wicker basket that sat on the sandstone counter behind them.
"Well..." One said. "Zere is one other place we have not looked."
They rose to their feet, and Zalman followed. They exited the great library and began to walk up the spiral staircase once more. Vibrating hums were protruding from some doors, and behind others was the sound of streams of water, and some, the roaring of beasts, some howling winds.
Finally, when they nearly reached the top, there was a door, and across the handle were crystals, strung by strings.
"Shouldn't we... knock?" Said Zalman.
"No." The Vizier pointed to the crystal. "Zey know we are here."
The door creaked open and there was a blindfolded len in a turban. He held in his hand a crystal, holding it in front of his face.
"We have here lord Zalman from ze balace."
The blindfolded len nodded and turned.
Inside this strange space, it seemed as if it was a cavern. There were crystalline walls that seemed to stretch forever. Hovering crystals were all around them. On the ground were other blindfolded Viziers, who were all sitting, draped in tight cloth, muttering amongst themselves.
"What is this place?" Zalman inquired.
"Ze hall of ze Zeeing Ztones." The tall one said.
"Go, ask," Said the short Vizier.
The blindfolded escort stood in front of Zalman, eye-level, expressionless, still holding the crystal in front of his face.
"I need to know about ze one they call Alflayir."
The blindfolded Vizier nodded, and handed him the stone.
"Sit."
Zalman sat down, and the Vizier blindfolded him with a silk cloth, revealing his own whited over eyes, revealing he was blind. He leaned closer and whispered to him.
"Take ze stone, hold... here." The Vizier adjusted Zalman to hold the stone in front of his blindfolded face. "zink on ze name Alflayir,"
Zalman sat... and kept thinking to himself.
Alflayir
Alflayir
Alflayir.
Suddenly, the sound of a rushing wind came and whisked Zalman away. It was as if he was no longer blindfolded, as he saw with otherworldly eyes, a battlefield.
It was the month of Havenstar, there was dirty snow, some blackened with soot, and some patches stained with blood. There were the shouts of len and cries of carnage and violence, as soldiers patrolled the streets of what Zalman instinctively knew was an Arlian town. Fires raged in the distance, and the sound of what Zalman knew was one of the terrible weapons the Fiorans had constructed, the falconet, wreaking devastation.
As Zalman's eyes darted across the bleak landscape, his attention was caught by a group of Arlian soldiers in the distance. They were making their way across a stone bridge that was built over a narrow creek, its semi-frozen waters swirling beneath them as the running water prevented most of it from freezing over. Dead trees, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, loomed ominously overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the scene. At one of the bridge's base columns, there was the cerulean and gold of the Arlian flag, waving slowly. Despite the desolate surroundings, the soldiers moved with purpose, their weapons at the ready and their eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger... when they saw the figure standing in front of them, clad in a black tunic and cloak, with a glinting, serrated sword... made of some work of alchemical fusion of obsidian and steel, its pommel bore a skull, and its hilt had a glowing ruby, with a strange viscious fluid, restlessly flowing.
The len began to tremble...
"It's him... it's the Hellflayer!-" They shouted.
Before he had even finished shouting, the Hellflayer dashed toward the company, the pommel of the sword glowing red-hot. He slashed through the first two, and they fell off the side of the bridge. Some len dropped their spears and shields and tried to sprint, but the fearsome assassin nimbly jumped, like a dancer, bouncing off the side of the bridge, cutting them off. He stood in front of them. All they could see was his seething green eyes.
One of the len drew his sword and charged at him with a panicked, desperate rage. The Hellflayer stepped to the side, and he stumbled forward, falling on his own sword, which pierced through his chainmail through his stomach.
Another len extended his spear to give as much distance between him and the assassin as possible. Still, the Hellflayer parried the thrust easily and, with his right foot, launched himself toward the spearman, slashing through his armor, sundering his breastplate. He fell to his knees as a red, murky cloud started to bubble under his white undershirt, and he fell face forward into the stone.
"I'll slay you in the name of Yol, demon!!" A young, naive soldier bellowed, sneaking behind the Hellflayer. The Hellflayer sensed it but was caught off-guard, and the sword swipe did graze his back, fraying his robe and exposing his skin, where now a long, paper-thin red stripe grew.
The Hellflayer turned in rage and thrust his sword through the chest of the young len, and then twisted it, causing him to cry in pain as he fell, dead.
"That's... my... SON!" One of the soldiers cried as he lifted a crossbow and fired it at the Hellflayer, who ducked, but the bolt strafed his shoulder. The man drew his own saber and ran toward the Hellflayer, joined by the company behind him who joined, trying to rush him. Before they could reach him, the Hellflayer jumped, in a half-flip, dragging the sword through the mass of len, who all fell into the mud, as the serrated edge tore through their armor with ease.
As he regained his balance, the Hellflayer jolted as a crossbow bolt struck his shoulder. He turned around and saw the father, whose mouth was caked in mud, streaked with a combination of blood and tears. The wounded masked len plucked the bolt and cast it to the side, picking up a jogging and then sprinting pace toward the len, slicing through him, causing him to fall forward, and then plunging his serrated sword into his back, and twisting it, ensuring he was gone.
The Hellflayer sheathed his sword as there were none left to challenge him. He clutched his shoulder and adjusted his back momentarily as he paced calmly toward the Arlian banner. He ripped it from the stone base, and tossed it into the river, which was now partially flowing crimson, staining the flag as it met the waters. The Hellflayer pulled from his tunic a smaller, burgundy flag, also accented with gold. It bore the symbol of the flying serpent, a crest cherished by the Venganzi. He hoisted the colors high, and returned to the shadows.
The rushing of the wind came again, thrusting Zalman back to the Hall of the Seeing Stones. He was panting and sweating.
"Water... water..." He gasped. The Vizier put an animal skin canteen to his lips, as he lapped it, causing water to spill onto his white silk tunic, which poked out from under his Royal guard's breastplate.
"Well? What did you see?"
Zalman lifted the blindfold and looked into the Vizier's eyes with grave concern.
"Death." He said. "So much death."
"The one they call Alflayir is a warrior from the deepest pit of Umbraneth... no regard for Lyban life. No mercy, just hate."
The Viziers exchanged their own startled looks.
"If this is the one who has come to the Sultanate... we must spare no expense to protect our people..." Zalman resolved.
When they returned to the first floor, the Flamestar was rising again in the sky, its light poking through the windows of the tower. Zalman was tucking the parchments gently in his satchel, as the two viziers bowed to him regally.
"Your service to the Sultanate cannot be understated, my wise lords."
"Please let us know how else we can assist you..."
Zalman nodded and draped the loose cloth from his turban to cover his face, leaving only his bloodshot, tired eyes exposed.
"Wait!" The tall Vizier said. "Before you go..."
"We require something in return... Zalman."
Zalman loosened the face covering momentarily, once more.
"As we said... we have been robbed. Zere is a fugitive from justice wandering ze desert..."
"Who might that be?"
"We believe it is the same Rajari you claim is with ze Alflayir."
Zalman pulled his leatherbound book again from his satchel, and the quill, pacing back over to the desk as the two viziers tracked him with their eyes.
He dipped it in the inkwell that was on the desk behind him, and looked to them eagerly, ready to write down the suspect's name.
"His name is Nedraj Jorne."
Zalman's head jerked and his eyes opened.
"The... prince of Rajar?" Zalman said. "You joke."
"No." Said the tall Vizier, concerned. "Another reason why we zaid nozing."
"He was the student we mentioned." The short one said. "What he ztole from our beoble... could cause a war, Zalman."
"What did he steal!?" Said Zalman. "Tell me plainly, so I can bring him to the Sultan's justice!"
The two viziers looked at one another.
"...Ze candle, brother Zalman... Ze candle..."
Zalman's eyes widened and his hands twitched, ever so slightly, showing the faintest tremble of holy awe.
"N-no..." Said Zalman
"Alflayir and the prince of Rajar, the thief... together..."
They both nodded, clearly already having come to the conclusion that was on the tip of Zalman's tongue.
"The candle...." He said.
The two Viziers slightly bowed, blessing Zalman, indicating they had already come to the same conclusion.
"THE DEN!" Zalman bellowed. He immediately tucked the book in his satchel and ran toward the gate as fast as he could.