The city of Zabyalla slept fitfully as of late.

By day, silver, electrum and gold flowed like rivers between bejewelled hands while the perfumes and spices of a hundred realms suffused the arid air. Haggling in a host of languages rose with the dust of horses, camels, and thousands of sandalled feet as false smiles and clasped hands sealed endless bargains.

Sweating sailors toiled at their oars, pulling barges laden with gold and slaves up the steaming River of Scales where crocodiles lurked just beneath the water’s sun dappled surface. The beasts had long grown fat on the bodies of those who had succumbed to the journey and been dumped unceremoniously over the sides.

From the western harbour, the ships’ cargoes would sojourn to the merchant houses and bazaars, or to the northern harbour facing the Sea of Gods: the great waterway connecting the lengths of two continents and the shores of a dozen empires.

Yet, once the reddened sun sank beneath the dry peaks of the west, the life of each day lay drowning beneath a nameless terror. Cedar wood fires were used to ward off the desert nights’ chill, but lately, none burned. Wine and ale houses lay empty in the dark, like tombs.

Dancers, carousers and musicians huddled in their homes like hares when the jackal stalks. All fought to deny sleep, for better to face a tired morning than the horror ruling the dreaming world within Zabyalla’s walls. When fatigue could no longer be borne, the exhausted dropped into unwelcomed sleep, writhing and screaming in terror as though scorpions feasted upon them.

Even the youngest babes suffered so, though none shrieked louder than the merchant princes and princesses of the city. For decades, they ruled empires of spice and precious metal. Their gleaming palaces of white stone rose like diamonds on a golden crown towering behind walls as thick and high as a fortress.

Private legions patrolled their demesnes; veterans, whose bronze lamellar, broad shields and sharp spears shone in both sun and moonlight, but whose courage had withered until they too huddled in the dark, jumping at shadows that danced beyond the flickering light of their torches. They cringed as their masters and mistresses shrieked in sleep above their heads, the stricken voices carrying far from their sanctums and towers.

The fortunate would waken more exhausted than the evening before, while the remaining would be found cold and twisted beneath their silken sheets, with countenances contorted in horror so profound that death had come in welcome fellowship.

Yet, a single palace in Zabyalla stood free from this nocturnal plague.

The House of Cas.

One of the youngest of the great merchants, Merchant Prince Cas had forged in six years what his rivals had built over decades. He had quickly taken control of most of the mercantile council, and whispers told that he would soon be called Merchant King Cas, standing above all others in wealth and power.

No cries of terror echoed from behind his walls, and his private soldiers patrolled confidently with eyes vigilant and mouths chattering to each other in ease. His enemies, in contrast, suffered worst of all. The Merchant Prince Vishtaspa once secured a promise of a thousand casks from the legendary vineyards of Olubria, which Cas coveted. The next morning, venerable Vishtaspa’s estate was found silent. Every soul that had slept behind its walls had perished in the night.

Cas got his wine.

Evil rumours spread as to what or who was the source of the nightly horror. For most, deterred by one unspoken conclusion, fear ensured that they would never dare oppose Cas. To others, though, the future merchant king’s growing wealth proved too sweet a song to resist.

A forest of pikes rose beside Cas’ gates upon which his guards had impaled the desiccating heads of each thief, cutthroat and barbarian that sought to steal their master’s treasures. The bold, the desperate, the masterful. It mattered not. Compatriots would toast their fallen brethren with cheap wine in darkened huts while staving off the horrors of sleep.

As drunkenness grew, so did brash talk as tales would be spun of what kingly prize awaited, and the dreams of boundless wealth grew with every telling. Soon, the foolhardy would be tempted enough to pit their wit and luck against the walls of the merchant prince’s demesne.

There was no shortage of brave fools.

There was no shortage of heads for Cas’ pikes.

This night was no different.

----------------------------------------

Shick.

A bronze dagger sliced a guardsman’s throat.

A calloused hand clasped his mouth.

The man stiffened, his blood drenching his armour and spurting through the moonlight with each heartbeat. With a shudder and muffled whimper, he went limp.

Kashta of Mabatia caught the spear slipping from the corpse’s nerveless fingers. With falcon-like grace, he lowered his victim to the floor and quickly turned to find the other guard already snoring against a silk tapestry. His partner, Prince Aparis of the fallen kingdom of Illia, was carefully tying closed a pouch of white powder. “That works well,” Kashta commented.

“It had better,” Aparis bent over the sleeping guard, watching his face carefully. “My late master used to pay a child’s weight in silver for a handful of this,” his lips curled up in satisfaction. “Look! How peacefully he sleeps!”

Kashta wiped the red from his dagger, then stooped to pat at the belt of the slain man. “It’s as I’ve told you; all in Zabyalla know Cas’ household lays immune to the night terrors. They say Cas is the source.”

“All rumours need confirmation, Kashta,” the young wizard examined the belt of the sleeping guard. “And now we know the truth of it; no doubt Cas found himself some object of power and thinks himself a wizard now… Hmmmm, do you remember when his procession passed through the grand market yesterday morning?”

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Kashta scoffed. “Even the priests of Stheno had to make way for them.”

“Yes, and on his palanquin, he clutched a sceptre to his breast like it was his first born! I’d wager that’s what it is!”

“Shhh! Keep your voice low!” Kashta hissed.

Aparis’ voice fell, but he continued his musings as he rummaged through the sleeping man’s belt pouches. “That’s his object of power, no doubt, and I hope the fool enjoyed it while he could,” his look turned dark. “Demon’s bile!” he swore. “No key on this one! What about yours?”

“None here either,” Kashta threw a nervous glance down the hallway.

Two ebony doors rose at the end, twice the height of a tall man, faced in gold and bearing the images of twin goddesses. They clasped hands in greeting, and where their gilded palms met, lay an adamant lock crafted by the trove guardians of Laxondael. Kashta shuddered at the fortune it must have cost; if the two could have stolen those doors, they would live like kings for years.

“Your little partner’s source said the hallway guard carried a key! What do we do?” Aparis demanded.

“Calm yourself,” Kashta’s eyes narrowed, and he moved his dark dreadlocks behind his shoulders. “These things happen. You have to adjust,” he scratched the stubble on his chin, glancing back down the stairs. “Captain Azar likely carries a key with her, but she won’t be alone.”

“Does it matter if we find her alone or not?” Aparis’ gaze fell to the bronze shamshir resting in a loop on Kashta’s belt. The long, curved blade glinted fiercely in the low light, like a beast’s fang. “Kashta the Talon they call you. They say one could walk twenty days distance from here and never find a sword-arm so quick as yours. They say you are the match of ten.”

Kashta snorted. “Whoever these babbling they are, they’ve never had a fight in their lives. Azar’s called ‘The Sting’ for a reason. Nearly as good as I. One against one, I’d wager on myself, but with three or four bronze coats beside her, it wouldn’t matter if I was Kashta the Talon, Kyembe the Spirit Killer, or one of the grand weapon masters of the Cult of Steel. I’d die. The rest of this household would come running as soon as they heard bronze clashing too,” he said bitterly. “What about your magic? Can that stop them?”

Aparis shook his head. “I can subdue one. Maybe two. Had I spells to go against a whole household of soldiers,” he gave a savage look. “I’d already be in Heba exacting revenge for their sacking of fair Illia!”

The swordsman swore. “Then we are ruined! This is why I said we needed Wurhi with us, princeling mage! I should’ve never listened to your traitorous hissing! She can undo these metal fiends!” he pointed at the lock.

The former prince waved a pale, delicate hand. “Then, we would’ve had to make a two-way split into three for nothing. I said I couldn’t subdue a horde, not that I couldn’t deal with a lock.” He dug into one of the many small pouches on his belt and drew a tiny bottle of glass that glinted in the cold light. So clear was it, that one could see every subtle swish of the transparent liquid within.

“Djinn’s tears,” a smile curved across the former prince’s unblemished face. “Extracted by the binders of the City of Glass, bottled by their sandwrights, and then foolishly bought by a cunning wizard who thought to enslave one who was prince of thousands! The trouble will come if Cas is any magus worth his weight; he will feel the magic being cast and be alerted to our presence.”

“After all this talk, I’d be surprised if he doesn’t already know we’re here,” Kashta grunted, his dark eyes fixed on the bottle like it were a live cobra. Only the stupid or dead did not fear magic.

Often, one who quickly became the other. His hand unconsciously drifted to his sword. “Fine, princeling, cast your spell. We’ll get in there and strike Cas’ head off his shoulders as soon as you open the doors. Then, he’ll be too dead to care if we’re here or not and we can take our spoils and begone.”

“Just remember, above all else, that sceptre comes to me.”

Kashta only grunted in acknowledgement.

The pair of thieves crept to the doors; their sandals nearly soundless on the stone. Aparis crouched before the lock, uncorking his bottle and clasping it in both hands. Kashta watched the hall, ear cocked for the potential approach of jingling bronze or sandals on stairs. Strange words poured from the young wizard’s mouth. An aquamarine glow seeped between his slender fingers. Something seemed to hiss through the air, and…

Click!

The doors swung open.

Creeeeaak.

Their groaning shudder masked Kashta’s shamshir sliding from his belt.

“Quickly!” the warrior hissed.

The two rushed into the massive bedchamber, poised for violence.

Little light greeted them save that of a scattered pair of oil lamps on ceiling chains and a thin line of moonlight that slipped between the heavy curtains over the balcony. The line of pale illumination marked the stone foot of some enormous bed.

Kashta took a step toward it, his sword already rising for a deadly stroke.

“Wait!” Aparis whispered harshly. “Something’s not right!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Slow applause echoed in the dark.

“Congratulations, little thieves,” an urbane baritone mocked. “You have found the sanctum of Cas, future Merchant King of Zabyalla.”

Hiss.

A flickering flame came to life on the far side of the room.

Kashta gasped.

Merchant Prince Cas sat cross-legged upon a marble throne so massive that the tall man’s form seemed childlike in it, nearly disappearing among the sea of cushions piled around him, all silken and flourished with silver brocade.

Midnight curls that spilled to his shoulder ringed his handsome face, and a fine over-robe - a rich, deep blue-black with points of white upon it like stars on a night sky - lay open to reveal heavy pectorals and clear abdominals sculpted from many hours in his house of strength. Jewellery dripped from his body, and a sea of coins, gems, gilded weapons, pearls and silk lay scattered beneath the dais at his feet.

“There it is…” Aparis murmured, ignoring the kingly fortune for one particular treasure.

Across the knees Cas held a sceptre of shining platinum. Ancient cuneiform crawled up and down its handle, the characters so sharp that they stung the eye. Violet sapphires encrusted the head, and within each, swam some undulating shadow, tinging their surreal beauty with the essence of a nightmare. Even looking at the thing frayed the nerve.

Kashta forced his pounding heart to calm and took a step forward. He pointed his shamshir toward Cas. “We’re taking your fortune, merchant,” he spat. “Scream and I’ll flay you before your guards even reach the hall.” He would be flaying the man anyway, but there was no need to mention that. “I am Kashta of Zabyalla, who warriors call The Talon. Beside me is Prince Aparis of Illia, who commands wizardry. Follow our words and you may live to see the sun.”

“Kashta!” Aparis cried with sudden alarm. “There’s something else in this room!”

“You are correct, former prince of Illia.” Cas’ teeth shone in the dark. “If a little late in your realization.”

“Kashta! We have to-”

The violet sapphires gleamed.

Light flared.

The black deepened.

Sound fled the air.

Then an immensity breathed in the dark.

“Aparis, behind us! Defend yourself!” Kashta cried.

The men whirled.

The swordsman brought his shamshir into guard position. The wizard held his djinn’s tears high, muttering words of power.

Yet, what met their eyes froze them still.

Kashta the Talon’s blade slid from numb fingers.

Clatter!

The bronze rang on tile.

Former Prince Aparis of Illia dropped his object of power.

Crunch!

It shattered on the stones.

Both men let out whimpers of primal terror which swelled into shrieks ripping through the night.

They were quickly cut off.

There was no shortage of brave fools.

There was no shortage of heads for Cas’ pikes.

This night had been no different.