Eyes glittered behind a gold mask that worked into the shape of a madly laughing face. A figure-hugging black suit of seamless leather revealed an athletic body. The only visible flesh was the right hand, which idly stroked the strings of a golden harp. He had sensed the escape of the one who had so casually undone what had taken him years to weave. His Veil. There is so much work to be undone in a moment. The plucking fingers found a dark tune amidst the forest of strings, and the room darkened.
Those who had sworn themselves to him and betrayed their people to do it cowered before him in silence. They knew that silence always came before murderous rage. They crouched on the temple’s ancient mosaic floor. The mosaic was still spattered with the blood and dried gore of the sacrifices made to bring about Atramen’s masterwork. He liked the defilement of this holy place, the heart of the palace, which was itself the heart of the city. From here, his power had spread over the entire city. Through his servants, it would spread across the lands of the East, giving him an unshakeable power base. And now?
He leaped to his feet with a roar, and three members of his court burst into flames. They shrieked as the flames coursed over their bodies in waves before curling up into silent, agonized shapes. The gold mask swept the room, and none dared meet his gaze. The temple doors swung open. Dark streaks now marred those doors inside, covering the rich carvings that had adorned them for centuries. Three figures strode in, clad in scarlet robes, and masked like Atramen, though their masks were of plain iron and cast into various screaming faces. Each carried a box that hung from around their necks. It was impossible to tell if they were male or female. Those they passed too close to shrank away, cowering closer to the floor. One woman fainted dead away.
The three walked in perfect step, one ahead of the other two. Each carried a variety of implements at their belt, blades, hooks, and spikes, which rattled and jingled as they walked. They stopped before Atramen and bowed deeply.
“Master, we followed the intruder’s scent to a small gate south of the city. There were traces of a traveling spell in the air. We captured the remnants.” The lead Shrieker held aloft its box. Atramen walked over to it, raging, and opened the box. A ghostly trilling whistle filled the air, an echo of an echo. Atramen lifted his head, cocked to one side, and his eyes closed. An image formed in the air. Lines, crookedly drawn, movement as of waves. It was a map showing a coastline complete with crashing surf as viewed from above. The view widened, and the surf became a faint white line. Forests and mountains became visible. The view continued to move and whirl. He opened his eyes, and the view became still. The Shriekers also opened their eyes and observed.
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“Somewhere here. The western arm of the Hasten Mountains. It was too vague, but the spell was random and not, I suspect, intended for this world at all. Our visitor was trying to return home. How touching.” Atraman’s voice caused the heads of his court to rise, its richness and beauty intoxicating. The Shriekers breathed deeper, heads raised, drinking in their master’s voice. “The question is, where will they try and go from here? We must assume the traitor is in league with the Black Isle and will try to reach Nameless.”
“There is another possibility, Master.” The lead Shrieker intoned. A faint echo of tortured shrieks scored each word and screams. Its voice was a creeping, slithering thing. “There were other humans within the walls. They escaped us on a stormbird.”
The map disappeared, and the Shrieker closed its box. Atramen looked at it, eyes gleaming.
“A stormbird? Here?”
“It was witnessed, Master, carrying two humans from the same quarter of the city where the traveling spell was worked.”
“So, our sorceress and her companion escape via magic, and two other humans flee using a stormbird.”
“Perhaps some of those who fled the city for the Southlands are now conspiring against you.”
“And they have a sorcerer of uncommon power to lead them. Go, take a company, and find the one we seek. Scour the Southlands, flay them, burn them, make them wish for death.”
The Shriekers bowed low and swept away.
“You are all very fortunate.” Atramen raised his voice. “You will have the opportunity to contribute to my glorious legions. We go to war, and I need fresh blood.” The air became filled with the clamor of desperate voices, each pledging more enslaved people than the last to be given over to the Shriekers. Atramen sat atop his throne and listened, once more plucking at the harp.