Tarok the Wanderer and the Depths of Sikandiyra
The Tarok the Wanderer Short Story Index
The smell of the sea washed through the air in waves. The brisk breeze carved through the streets and alleyways carrying sounds from the harbour deep within the sandstone city of Sikandiyra. Chrysanthemums blossomed from balconies, hanging down in a flurry of yellows, reds, and whites. Four storey buildings lined the meandering streets from well squares to market squares. Canals cut in the sand and bricked with sandstone weaved to and fro, creating passages from the harbour on the Terzani Sea into Sikandiyra and beyond to the Rapunna River.
Tarok walked the streets of the trading city, hub of the world on the south coast of the Terzani Sea. Merchants had sold him out to the east, on the edges of Ertugrul’s Domain in the border region of Sivrek. Sooner of later those same merchants would be here, buying, selling, and otherwise sullying their hands with gold. Tarok could not read the clay tablet he had found on the Knight of Kah’s corpse but the symbol on the back he recognised. The broken wheel of Those Who Court Death, the warrior-priests who ruled Sikandiyra and the land south along the Rapunna River. All Tarok had to do was find a priest. He pushed through the crowds gathering around canal side market. The black clad soldiers of the Army of Death, the broken wheel painted in white on their tabards and breast plates, patrolled the streets prone to violence between disparate outsiders.
Tarok watched as a group of horsemen from the east bartered with hand gestures with a robed merchant of the nomadic tribes that grazed their camels and horses along the fertile banks of the Rapunna River. Travellers from Ertugrul’s Domain barged their way through crowds of locals to savour the delicacies of a Sikandian baker, his smile warm and welcoming his clothing vibrant. The grim expressions of the westerner, their dour clothing of bear fur and leathers, warded away other customers of all types. Tarok wondered how open bloodshed was not a feature of the day. A unit of six Sikandian soldiers marched past, helms made from the skulls of the their own dead hair dried and brittle clinging to preserved bone. Archers walked the flat roof tops, bone tipped arrows nocked and ready. The tension was palpable but the jovial chatter of the Sikandian merchants held the threat of violence at bay.
Tarok spotted a man through the crowd, lashing his boat to the canal side. His shirt and complexion similar to Tarok’s own, an axe swinging from his belt. ‘Friend, do you know of someone who can translate this?’ Tarok flashed the clay tablet, about the size of his hand, to the man.
The man looped a rope around a metal stake and sighed. He squinted at the thing, his hand resting on his axe, and said in broken words, ‘Cathedral of White Ash. Away from the canal. That direction,’ he pointed west. ‘Unless you help with goods, no more questions,’ the man dropped back into his boat and opened a compartment full of crates.
Tarok thanked the travelling merchant and headed west, away from the market place. He had thought he was in the centre of the city before but each street and alley became narrower, more claustrophobic. Sheets of cloth where tied to the rooftops, shielding the alleyways and passages from the harsh sun of the day. The cool sea breeze whistled between the buildings, blowing a steady stream of sand coating everything within Sikandiyra. Flower baskets hung from every window, budding ivy climbed buildings wrapping itself around the minarets common amongst the higher, wealthier, floors of tenements.
A pair of soldiers marched by Tarok. He stopped them and asked where the Cathedral of White Ash was. The skull helmed duo glanced at one another, their eyes shadowed by the bone and hood. One said something in Sikandian and the other pointed south west. Tarok thanked them and continued on. Emerging onto a main road bustling with activity. Carts pulled by oxen flowed both ways while a rush of people flowed like a river around them. Children darted through the sandy street tossing sacks of sand to one another as they ran. Parents and worker shouted alike for them to be careful. Tarok headed west, towards another market square shaded by long lengths of cloth hung over head. He could make out Sikandian’s at every stall, both buying and selling. Few foreigners shopped. The light coloured, baggy clothing, of the Sikandian’s created a sea of bright figures. The square sloped downward at the far side of the market, short minarets peaked up from the ground.
Tarok wormed his way through the market, his hands around his axe and coin purse. He felt a small hand brush and tug on his purse. He spun around to find nothing but the annoyed expression of the man behind as to why Tarok had slowed down. Tarok grunted and tightened his grip. He emerged on the other side, a breath a cool sea air welcoming him. Steps descended down to a dark stone building at odds with the rest of the architecture. Minarets peaked from each of its four corners, the roofs spiked and ornate. A copper dome gleamed from the centre. He climbed down the steps, the air growing cold. He delved inside to the sound of bells and the smell of lingering incense. Two rows of pillars guided him inside, skeletal statues carved into each, a blue flame in one hand and gold in the other. No other light illuminated the building. Cushions lined the floor in rows all facing an altar at the far side between two enormous robed skeletons, eyes burning, one blue and one gold. Tarok straightened his back and felt the cold chill of stone crawl up his legs. An altar stood between the two giant skeletons, a chalice resting in the centre. Skulls lined the edge of the altar top, jaws wired shut. Tarok leaned over and glanced inside the chalice, a dark liquid was solidified within. Tarok backed away, the stench of death rising around him.
A clicking sound echoed from the darkness, ‘Can I help you?’ A sharp voice said. A robed man appeared, a staff in one hand. The top half of a skeleton clung to the top of the staff, the arms crossed over the ribcage and wired to the shoulders. The jaw hung lopsided, the last strip of rotting flesh holding it on.
Tarok held out the tablet, ‘What does it say?’ He said.
The man peered at the clay, squinting against the gloom. ‘You survived,’ he said slowly.
‘You wrote this?’ Tarok reached for his axe.
‘No but it is rare a man survives an encounter with the Knights of Kah,’ the priest said, his grammar broken and strained.
‘Does it say who did?’
‘Yes and no,’ the priest nodded his head from side to side. ‘I can tell you it came from a Priest of Blood and Bone. I cannot tell you which one. The sum was considerable and to be collected in Sivrek, strange,’ the priest muttered to himself in Sikandian, his features pinched.
‘And?’
‘There is no barracks, monastery, whatever the Knights of Kah call it, in Sikandiyra or along the Rapunna River. Who are you?’
‘Tarok.’
The priest shrugged. ‘I am Aiemok, for what it’s worth. Your name I do not know and it is not one I have heard. I would look… lower for answers,’ Priest Aiemok tapped his staff twice. Blood rose from the crags in the floor. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the skeletons and the dark liquid within the chalice turned to fresh blood. Tarok stood in ankle deep blood and then it drained away, his feet dry. The Priest of Blood and Bone smiled, a gnarled thing. ‘Lower,’ he said and stepped back into the shadowed halls of the Cathedral of White Ash.
Tarok was left standing at the foot of the altar, alone. A chill breeze circled the building without windows, the door shut.
Tarok emerged into daylight less certain of his betrayer than before. The money was in Sivrek, he remembered Aiemok’s words. Ertugrul? He thought. Why would he go through a Sikandian priest to kill me? Do the Knights not work with him? He skirted the edge of the market and settled on a shaded step. Children ran in the sand, tossing a small sand filled sack to one another. He tossed the clay tablet into the air and caught it. Lower?
Tarok lazily regarded the market. The flood of people buying and selling all manner of things from food to clothing to trinkets and henna markings. He glanced from one side to the other and settled his sights on an alleyway to his left. A group of hooded men traded coin and a pouch in the shadows. Lower?
Tarok held the clay tablet in one hand and hovered his other near the axe on his belt as he strode into the shaded alleyway. The buyers saw Tarok and ran with their illicit goods. The two who remained turned to face the Wanderer. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ said the nearest, his hands secreted beneath his cloak.
Tarok halted, ‘Can you tell me what this is?’ He showed the clay tablet, front and back.
The scarred man shook his head. The younger man, nearer to Tarok, shrugged, ‘It an order for a killing. Anyone could tell you that,’ he scoffed.
‘How do I get one?’
‘Got one right there,’ the younger scoundrel said.
‘For someone else,’ Tarok stepped forward.
A knife hissed into the scarred man’s hand. The younger one held his arm out, ‘Easy. Who is asking.’
Tarok grunted, checked the path behind him, and flew at the young man pressing him up against the wall and choking him with his arm. ‘Much easier if you tell me.’
The younger man’s breath stank of stale beer as he laughed. ‘Unhand me.’ His eyes darted to the scarred man, the younger shook his head.
Tarok felt the pinch of a sharp blade against his stomach. He glanced down and saw a serrated knife ready to gut him. He rolled his eyes and grabbed the scoundrel’s wrist, twisting it until bones popped and the knife skittered across the ground. He yanked the man off the wall and spun him around, twisting his shoulder. ‘Tell me.’
The scarred man stepped back and forth, his knife out in front of him, ‘Fudal?’ The younger man groaned and pleaded, ‘Alright. Alright. Easier to show you,’ he said. ‘Let me go and Pom and I will show you.’
Tarok twisted his shoulder until bone began to grind, ‘Assurances.’
Fudal dropped to his knees, ‘Take our knives and walk behind us. Enough?’ He panted with pain.
Tarok considered the offer, reaching down for the serrated knife. He found it and let go of Fudal’s arm. The younger man fell forward and was sweating with pain. ‘Good. Alright, Pom give him your knife. You, follow us.’
Pom frowned and dropped the knife. Tarok secreted the first in his belt and held the second knife in one hand. Fudal led them both deeper into the shadowy alleyway. He stopped beside a door and checked no one had followed them. He opened the door and descended down. Tarok followed, peering into the gloom. ‘There’s no torches until the bottom,’ Fudal said.
Tarok grunted and descended the steps behind Fudal and Pom. He closed the door behind him. ‘These tunnels are used by the Army of Death to quickly navigate the city. Far quicker than the surface. Most are unused except in emergencies,’ Fudal said, his voice echoing deep into the earth.
Light exploded from a torch in Fudal’s hand, the smell of smoke stung the air. Tarok did not trust the two men but saw little alternative. Sikandiyra was foreign and thus opaque to Tarok, a local, an untrustworthy local, provided vision and clarity. Tarok wondered if he could gain their trust perhaps, he scrubbed the premature thought and kept a hand on his axe.
The tunnels twisted and turned underground, some drilled deeper, others rose almost to the surface. Streams of water ran in the middle of some and others where choked with rats. The smell of damp permeated them all and mingled with excrement. A fitting home for the criminal element of Sikandiyra, Tarok thought.
Fudal and Pom finally led him into an open chamber, incense burned in sconces and the smoke hung from the ceiling in roiling clouds. Candles flickered all over, the light dancing on the scarred faces of well armed men. A cadre appeared and surrounded Tarok.
‘You are far too trusting,’ Fudal laughed while the criminals liberated Tarok of his weapons.
‘Come forward,’ a silken voice said from the shadows further into the room.
The thieves and murderers parted and Tarok strode forth, head held high. ‘Are you their leader?’
‘Something like that,’ a woman leaned out of the shadows, her auburn hair shimmering in the light. Legs crossed, one foot kicking the air, she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. Her blue eyes bored in Tarok. ‘Kebi, Tjat of the Undercity,’ she sat back on her stone chair treating it as a king would a throne. Her vowels rounded, unlike those of the Sikandians.
Tarok shrugged, ‘I don’t know the title.’ He glanced around in the gloom and counted twenty men. Too many.
‘You have wandered into my dominion,’ Kebi stressed the final word. ‘I would know why.’
North coast of the Terzani Sea, Tarok placed her. Beyond that maybe, he reached for the clay tablet found on the corpse of the Knight of Kah. ‘I wish to find whoever made this,’ he held up the tablet.
Kebi’s mouth became sickle shaped, ‘You survived. I could have use for a man with such luck and talent.’ She uncrossed her legs, the heel of her boot clicked against the dank floor.
‘Did you order this?’
‘No. I only kill when it confers me an advantage.’
‘Can you read the runes?’
‘What’s your name?’ Kebi regarded Tarok with a pleasant stare.
‘Tarok.’
‘I can but what will you do for me?’
Tarok held the clay tablet out for Kebi. Taking it in one hand her eyes lazily scanned the single side of runes. ‘Money in Sivrek. A description of you, lacking. Last sighted near Byl. You have travelled far from your home in the east.’
‘A horde rampages ever westward.’
‘I have heard tales,’ Kebi, Tjat of the Undercity, handed the clay tablet back. ‘Now what can you offer me?’ She smiled and clasped her hands together. A man stepped forward, hand tightly wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
Tarok remained silent.
Kebi sighed and rolled her eyes. Running a finger through a curl of hair she said, ‘You are a man with a singular skill. Killing. I would use that skill. I expand my influence, you go free. A fair trade. Do we have a deal?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’ Kebi’s lips thinned.
‘Who it is,’ Tarok eyed the man nearest. If he moved fast enough he could get the sword before another got close.
‘Kefra. A competitor. Not a warrior but money enough to hire a couple. Easily found during the day. Do you accept?’ Kebi rapped her fingers along the arm of her chair. Her nails tacked against the surface.
Tarok watched a second man step out of the gloom. He ground his teeth. The stench of incense made him heady. ‘Yes,’ he finally said.
Kebi bloomed with smiles, ‘Marvellous. Return his weapons. Fudal, show this man out. Give him a description of the mark and point him in the right direction. Next time I see you Kefra will be dead or you will not leave these tunnels again.’
Two axes were shoved into Tarok’s hands, one after the other. He followed Fudal out of the chamber and prayed to Uruk.
‘Do not think you can run,’ Kebi shouted after him. ‘We are always watching.’
Tarok reached the surface. ‘How did that woman become your leader?’
‘She is the tjat. Appointed by the Kafari,’ Fudal said.
‘The Kafari are in charge?’
‘A foolish question,’ Fudal growled. ‘Your target is Kefra Muscat. He is aged with a white beard. Wears black robes, usually. Often guarded by four men while he wanders the River Bank Market.’
‘Where’s that?’ Tarok said.
Fudal rolled his eyes, ‘I am not the one on the hunt. Go that way, eventually you’ll find it.’ Fudal pointed eastward.
Tarok looked in the direction, there was a wall. He turned back and Fudal was gone. ‘Great, now I have a tail. Multiple most likely,’ he trudged out of the alleyway and made his way east across the city.
Tarok reached the River Bank Market. River barges swamped the edge of the canal, tied to iron hooks planted in the sandstone walls. The canal cut south and turned east toward the Rapunna River. Farmers climbed one of the many sets of steps leading to the waters edge carrying sacks of grains and rices to be sold to the traders of Sikandiyra. Donkeys and carts gathered in a ring around the bulk of the barges. Merchants waved fists of coin and shouted their offering price at the farmers as they gathered on the edge of of the canal. Lucky merchants had half filled their carts in the early hours of the day. Tarok weaved his way through the makeshift barrier of carts and into the bidding square. He stood and watched the various trades being made. A man at the far end tossed his coin purse to the ground and cursed as a farmer shook hands on a deal with another merchant. That scene repeated a half dozen times up and down the line. Farmers showed off hand fulls of grains and rices proclaiming the superior quality usually revolving around how plump it was.
A figure appeared in the corner of Tarok’s eye leaning against a wall, a hood pulled over his features. My tail, Tarok thought noting how obvious he was making himself. This would be Kebi’s confirmation, an eye witness and not an ear or Tarok’s word. Tarok ignored the tail while inwardly cursing himself, and Uruk. A death from the shadows was no true offering and if anything an insult.
Tarok strode through the crowds of merchants and farmers to the edge of the canal. More barges headed upstream to an already packed stretch of water. Tarok judged he could run across the canal to the other side by jumping from boat to boat. To the north where stalls where the farmers sold in smaller quantities to regular people. The selling was equally severe and the price fluctuated with an ebb and flow. People waited to the side, coin purses in hand, for the prices to drop. For the copper to pound to be right. A farmer yelled his price and a handful of women surged forward shouting the weights they wanted. After the second the farmer increased his asking by a copper. One woman stayed, accepting the increased price, the others retreated waiting for the next drop. Those that could not afford to wait milled passed the row of stalls buying whatever they could from whoever they could.
A man in flowing black robes, hands clasped behind his back, strolled between buyers and sellers. Four men followed him, maces shining on their hips. The farmers greeted him with a tip of their caps or tapping their foreheads. A fifth man followed with lidded basket, opening it at each stall. Each farmer tossed his fee into the basket. The sound of muffled coin echoed and the wicker bulged underneath.
Kefra Muscat, Tarok caught sight of the aged man’s white beard, the rest of his appearance that of a younger man. The Wanderer followed and pretended to peruse the farmers offerings. Each sack of rice looked the same as the other and none appealed to Tarok. The tail kept his distance but placed himself for Tarok to see. Tarok ran his thumb along the sharp edge of his small axe. If I miss… he considered the woman in the crowd, the people around him. The pandemonium that would ensue if blood was spilled. An open attack would draw the ire of the Army of Death. Tarok regarded the futility of his position while he felt the measure of rice through his fingers. He shook his head and continued to follow Kefra.
What if instead, Tarok stormed ahead pushing his way through the crowd and beyond Kefra Muscat. He turned and approached the man he was meant to kill. ‘Someone wants you dead,’ he said.
Kefra halted. Two of his guards stepped ahead of him, maces at the ready. The sun gleamed off the blunt weapons. ‘An odd tactic. Many want me killed,’ Kefra said. ‘You are not unique.’
‘I do not want you dead. Kebi, Tjat of the Undercity does.’
‘Is that what she calls herself these days,’ Kefra chuckled, stroking his beard. ‘And you are the man to do it?’
‘I was meant to be but it does not help me and it would offend Uruk.’
Kefra narrowed his eyes, ‘Then what are you doing?’
The crowd had stilled, nearby rice sellers fell silent, all eyes where on Tarok. ‘I am being watched and likely Kebi already knows I have revealed myself. I would know what this says,’ he pulled out the clay tablet.
Kefra’s expression rose and fell, ‘You survived. Pass it here.’ He frowned over the inscriptions, ‘The Bey of Sivrek was paying an enormous sum to your killer and to two others, merchants I think, for informing on your location. Collectible in Sivrek. Odd.’ Kefra tutted and turned the tablet over. ‘Arch Priest Quell’s marking,’ he stared at the symbol on the back.
‘Why did no one else know that?’ Tarok thought about the priest from earlier in the day.
‘The specific symbols are only known by a select few. To reduce fraudulent orders,’ Kefra said handing the clay tablet back. ‘I think I need to have a conversation with Quell.’
‘Me too,’ Tarok growled.
‘You know the location of Kebi?’
‘I imagine she has moved on.’
Kefra shrugged, ‘Another would only rise in her place. They always do.’ He said something in Sikandian and his four guards fell back in formation. ‘Come with me, for your own protection and mine. We both have questions for Quell,’ Kefra smiled and a darkness grew behind his eyes.
Tarok and Kefra Muscat arrived outside the Cathedral of the Pyre. The cathedral was hewn into the rock that held a portion of Sikandiyra aloft. Tufts of hardy pale grasses clung to the crags of the archways. The wooden doors stood open to the darkness inside.
Kefra ordered something in Sikandiyran and his four bodyguards positioned themselves either side of the door. ‘Let us see if the Arch Priest is home,’ Kefra said heading inside first.
Tarok followed into the musk scented interior, his nostrils bristling. Flames of blue and gold lined the walls of the snug cathedral, barely fifty feet across. People sat on cushions that lined the floor, praying. Some doubled over, others swaying backwards and forwards muttering alien words. Skeletal statues hung down from chains imbedded in the rough rock overhead, their eyes aflame.
A priest stood before the altar, his staff hoisted in the air. Sikandian words passed his lips, far quicker than Tarok could make out. Two other black robed priests stood to either side with their hands clasped, sweating blood. The priest at the altar turned to the congregation, chalice in hand, and drank deep. His eyes became blood red and his prayers shook the stone. A red splash landed in front of Tarok, he looked up. The statues wept blood. The people pressed their foreheads to the ground and said as one, ‘Ka’lum Badal.’
‘Ka’lum Badal!’ The priests sang in unison.
The congregation stood in silence, rose, and worked they way out of the Cathedral of the Pyre, heads bowed and flowing like water around Tarok and Kefra. The priests began to shuffle into the deepest dark of the cathedral.
‘Quell!’ Kefra stood in the middle of the room, his voice boomed against the rock.
The priest who drank the blood turned, his eyes no longer tinted. ‘Kefra?’ Is voice quested forward.
‘I have questions.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes,’ Kefra barked.
The Arch Priest hobbled towards them, his robes hindering his progress. ‘What?’
Kefra Muscat held his hand out to Tarok, ‘This tablet bears your symbol.’
Tarok handed the carved clay piece over and watched Quell’s eyes dart over the surface, ‘Never seen this before.’
‘Implications of dealings with Ertugrul,’ Kefra hissed. ‘This is your symbol is it not?’ He flipped the tablet over.
‘It is but I did not carve it. I know the Prince’s orders, I’m on the same council Kefra,’ the priest riposted.
‘Few people know these carvings. Missives for the council only and the Knights of Kah on occasion. Who would know it?’
Quell chewed his tongue, his hands squirming over one another, and his eyes settled on Tarok. ‘I have no idea but clearly there is a conspirator among the Prince’s closest advisors.’
Tarok held the Arch Priest’s gaze, comfortable with the questing eyes of foreigners. ‘Do you know this man?’ Kefra said.
‘No,’ Quell said too quickly.
‘What about these two names?’ Kefra pointed to the merchant’s names on the tablet.
‘Never heard of them,’ Arch Priest Quell’s stare returned to Tarok.
‘What do you know of this man?’ Kefra gestured to Tarok.
‘He is the Bey Killer. The Menace of Sivrek. The thorn in the side of Ertugrul,’ Quell said.
‘Why the lies, Quell?’ Kefra said.
‘Powerful men want this man dead, Kefra. It would be wise to claim the reward, finish him off before Ertugrul learns he is here,’ Quell spoke in hushed tones.
‘Ertugrul would not entertain attacking Sikandiyra. Our walls would repel his armies and our soldiers would feast on his dead,’ Kefra said. ‘Ka’lum Badal.’
‘Ka’lum Badal,’ Quell said reflexively.
‘You know this man. Enough lies Quell. Either your position is compromised by a traitor,’ Kefra Muscat held the tablet as evidence. ‘Or you have dealings outside of the Prince’s explicit orders.’
Arch Priest Quell snarled at Tarok, ‘How did you survive a Knight of Kah?’
‘Answers,’ Kefra bellowed. The clatter of bones rang from the ceiling.
‘Two merchants came to be with a cart of gold, for me. In exchange I would order the death of this man through a Knight of Kah who would receive payment in Sivrek, along with the two merchants. It was a simple deal, one that should have been clean and unnoticed,’ Quell said scowling at Tarok.
Tarok’s eyebrow rose, ‘A cart of gold? Impossible.’
‘I swear it. Whoever you have offended has a mine and is willing to pay its entire contents for your death,’ Quell reached inside his robe.
‘You didn’t think I, or someone else, would notice your renewed riches?’
Quell smouldered, a small bone staff in his hand. Tarok reached for his axe and stepped toward the Arch Priest, ‘Where are these two merchants?’
‘How would I know? This was weeks ago. Long gone now I suspect,’ Quell said.
‘Guards! Arrest the Arch Priest,’ Kefra Muscat ordered in Sikandian. His four bodyguards marched into the Cathedral of the Pyre and surrounded the priest.
‘You can’t. I outrank you, Kefra,’ blood rose from the floor.
Tarok lunged for the staff, the small axe gliding from his belt. He pressed the axe to Quell’s throat and wrangled the bone staff from his hand.
‘Filth! Threatening a Priest of Blood and Bone. Badal will curse you,’ Quell said sneering down his nose at Tarok while the Wanderer held the axe to his flesh. Blood curdled around their feet.
‘Badal will have to get through Uruk first,’ Tarok said.
‘Tarok,’ Kefra said his hands guiding the axe away. Kefra ordered the guards to take the Arch Priest away. ‘Watch your back, Tarok. The Knight of Kah will not be the last to hunt you. Ertugrul will know of the failure and pursue you across the world for the insult of killing two Beys.’ Kefra followed his guards out of the Cathedral of the Pyre.
Tarok stood alone in the gloom with more enemies than he started with.
The Tarok the Wanderer Short Story Index
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