Commandment

Daryl Chestney

Copyright ©2011, Daryl Chestney

ISBN: 978-0-9840707-3-2

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Printed in the United States of America.

“An especially appealing book for addicts of heroic sword-and-sorcery
…(Dominion)
weaves an epic tale out of a byzantine city, an equally complex plot, compelling characters and a sympathetic heroine…an uncommonly intellectual adventure
.”

—Kirkus Review

“(Dominion
is
)
classical epic fantasy about the quest for power and knowledge. The book succeeds in showcasing Chestney’s talent for detail and brilliant similes.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“(Dominion
has
)
a likeable main character, although (she is) an unlikely choice to play the hero, which actually makes me like her even more…the intricate storyline and colorful characters in
Dominion
kept me entertained…”

—Reader Views

T
HE FULL EXTENT OF LAKIF’S INJURY WAS NOT EVIDENT UNTIL THE NEXT
morning. Her first stretch acutely reminded the Acaanan of her wrecked ankle. On top of that, her forehead still throbbed from where a monk had drubbed it with her own staff.

She lay for long minutes, almost afraid to stir. The chute was abysmally black, and not a scrap of commotion drifted in from the Cauldrons outside. Lost in a sensory vacuum, she was forced to invent her own mental stimuli. Her mind’s-eye zeroed in on dagger-clutching, faceless monks and eerie, leaning tombstones. Her ears flicked to the tune of her own panting heartbeat.

She somehow suspected that it was dawn, although no objective evidence of morning filtered into the cell. She flicked her lighter to check the timepiece. It read six-thirty-six—far in advance of Prime. She wrestled with angst in the bricked coffin.

It soon became apparent that she couldn’t hibernate in the cell in her present state. She was seething with an anxiety that simply couldn’t be caged.

So, ignoring the discomfort, Lakif slipped from the cell. A ghostly mist gripped the Cauldrons. She suspected it seeped up nightly from Erebus, the subterranean realm below the Old City. Torkoth’s cell was sealed tightly. Lakif wondered if he opted to share his cell with the gamine and the mutt. Torkoth’s concern over his charge’s welfare was admirable; but the accommodations would be thorny—it would certainly be a tight squeeze for all three in a Cauldron cell.

The hobbled Acaanan retraced her steps from the night before. Intermittent vents allowed pale light to paint the ground, saving her from manufacturing a torch. This lighting was odd; according to her watch, dawn was still over an hour away. The source of the light was a mystery, leaving the Acaanan perplexed. She could only wonder if a second star had once again buffaloed the nocturnal heavens with its brilliance.

Almost by accident she stumbled across the stairs leading up. The first glimpse she had of the plaza was of the statues of the two warring centaurs. They were a fitting symbol of the previous night’s turmoil. It was, in fact, dawn. The candescent halo in the eastern sky betrayed the advent of day. A glazed mist effaced the edifices. Despite the time registered on her watch, Lakif felt that Prime was on the cusp of calling.

Scant traffic fractured the dawn. Largely free from public scrutiny, Lakif limped around, enjoying the morning face of Grimpkin like never before. She knew it was a foolish frolic. She would have been an easy mark for any monk scouts and an even easier catch with her lame limb. But the Acaanan was in no humor to hide.

She found herself on the crucifixion lane. The morning mists so camouflaged the gallows that the Acaanan felt she was simply passing street signs. A form shifted at the base of one. The imp was merely a blurry smudge. Imps tended to stake their claim to a particular corpse and dibble on it for days. She was reminded of Lucretia’s unique candle and its purported origin. If the beldam’s account was correct, some intrepid adventurer could arrive at any time to fillet flesh for another occult article.

A vague form coalesced in the mists. Someone was stationed at the end of the parade, sheltered under a crossbeam. But Lakif didn’t avoid the ghostly figure. Instead, she limped directly up to it.

The sentinel was decidedly shady. The wide brim of his hat drooped down over his eyes, cloaking them in shadow. A bent feather was pinned into the rim. His brindled canvas trench coat was salted with makeshift patches and loose threads.

“You there!” she addressed the man. Even though she had approached to speaking distance, she still struggled to ascertain if he was a bona fide person and not a propped-up scarecrow.

“I’ll be damned!” The Istani twitched at her approach. “If one lives long enough, he can know anything can happen!”

“How so?” Lakif asked.

“In all my days, I’ve never seen an Acaanan out before Terce,” he snickered. Thanks to the shielding hat, Lakif could make out little of the Istani save his teeth.

“We live in strange times,” Lakif replied. But she relished in the remark. If any Acaanan was to break the mold, it was she.

“And what brings you out so early? Did the clamor wrestle you from your haunt?” he asked.

“Clamor?”

“The thunder! It rent the city wide last eve. I thought that whole buildings turned upside down! It’s strange, however. To think it would take nearly
five
days for the star’s shout to ring in our ear. It
must
be far away indeed!”

Lakif focused on the Istani’s mouth as he hyperbolized the bell toll and its significance. His teeth resembled broken glass, and she was convinced one spiraled out as he jawed on. But Lakif understood the Istani’s basic thesis. Just as the crackle of thunder follows on the heels of a lightning flash, the Istani was curiously interpreting last night’s ruckus as the much delayed shout of the brilliant supernova five nights earlier.

“Oh. I thought that was a city bell.” Lakif offered up the banal truth of the noise.

“A bell? Don’t be absurd!” The Istani laughed at the prosaic interpretation.

“It seemed so at the time, but I was hung over,” she lied. “Anyway, I’m not here for chit-chat. A dram of cryptide—if you will.”

“I see you are celebrating!” The Istani nodded and fished a hand in a pocket.

As the agent rummaged through his stash, Lakif scanned the surroundings for any other activity. She spied nothing. Thankfully, the mists all but masked her from any patrols that might be afoot in the plaza.

She turned her attention back to the Istani. He was holding up different packets, as if doing mental calculations. Istanis were inveterate drug peddlers in Grimpkin. They tended to ply their goods at the extremes of day, trawling the avenues characteristically at sunrise and sunset, times when general traffic trailed off precipitously. It seemed they preferred a vacant theater as a backdrop to the illicit trade.

Given the propinquity of their duty to night and its unsavory denizens, theirs was surely a dangerous profession. And clearly the profit margin was low. This particular Istani was the picture of threadbare. Even his boots were mismatched.

The Istani pressed a packet into Lakif’s hand. His ratty gloves didn’t even cover all his fingers. She vetted the product carefully, so as to avoid getting ripped off. Its contents had inspired the early jaunt into Dantillion’s Wares.

After settling up with the vendor she hustled back in the direction of the warring centaurs. She didn’t really feel like returning to the Cauldrons but had even less interest in loitering in the plaza. As the mists gradually dispersed she would be more exposed to the public eye, including those of Ebon Myre spies. She breathed easier as she alighted on the stairs. Fortunately, for once luck had been her ally, and her sally into the plaza had gone unnoticed. It would be well past Prime when the morning sun finally burned away the mists, but by then she would be safely hidden in the Old City.

The Acaanan lobbed around the corner and was confronted by her steely-faced guard. Torkoth was standing before Lakif’s Cauldron cell like a jailor. His harsh expression faltered the Acaanan in her tracks.

“Where on earth have you been?” The Half-man’s tone was a mixture of astonishment and disapproval. Immediately, Lakif dismissed him with a smirk.

“I went for some air,” she offered up as a flimsy explanation.

Torkoth gripped her shoulders to give her a wake-up shake.

“The cries of Ebon Myre still echo and you go wandering around in incriminating daylight! Remain in your cell! What possessed you?” Torkoth reproved.

“I’m hungry!” Lakif whined. She couldn’t very well argue with the Half-man. Her jaunt into the plaza wasn’t wise for someone on the lam.

“I’ll bring you something to eat.” Torkoth was not acting like the Acaanan’s employee but like her boss. In fact, the Acaanan felt like she was being reprimanded by a schoolmaster.

The early riser grudgingly nodded her consent and limped past her scolding guardian. She had hoped that Torkoth would have been so preoccupied with the child and the mutt that he wouldn’t notice her sneaking back to her cell. But the street urchin and her pet were nowhere to be seen.

Lakif snaked back into her safe house. Torkoth was certainly in a better position to secure provisions for them both. He could walk the streets with impunity, for his identity hadn’t been foolishly compromised.

The hatch slammed close and the chute blacked over. Lakif pried a corner of the mat free and lit the kindling with her lighter. She collapsed with a groan. Her ankle burned like coals.

Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out the watch. It read six-thirty-six, the same time as before. She now noticed the crack on the glass face. Her precious watch was broken! She wondered how it had come to be so. Was it from the fall? She violently shook the thing, hoping that it would miraculously resume its functioning, but to no avail. Cursing the flimsy craftsmanship, she thrust the timepiece back into her pocket. Perhaps she could pawn it for a few minas.

Her concerns once again orbited around her tenderly swollen ankle. Although the Rare Earth Stone warmed her breast, it was as yet useless to her. The almighty Arcanum couldn’t be called on to mend even a bruised ankle.

But she was not without resort. From her belt pouch, she produced a yellow packet. She unrolled it, and various utensils spilled out. One was a hollow straw-like tube. In addition, there were several glass vials, each imbued with a colored liquid, along with a shallow porcelain saucer. From her inner pocket she drew forth the dusty packet procured from the Istani. She smiled wistfully at the sight.

Gingerly, she opened the envelope, as if she were sorting through fragments of eggshells. Within, the purple power winked at her.

T
HE
A
CAANAN GROANED WITH PLEASURE AND SLUMPED OVER FACE-FIRST
into the mat. Her arm flopped down, and the straw rolled from her limp grasp. Despite her face being uncomfortably buried in the rough-hewn fiber, an erotic smile warped her lips.

Perhaps injuries were her constant companion. But another dropped by from time to time to soothe her pain.
Cryptide
. Under its narcotic influence, all her suffering evaporated.

As she lay prone, saliva drooled from her mouth and pooled around her chin. At some point, she managed to tug her tunic up over her head. Beneath that canopy she floated far outside the confines of the oppressive cell, far outside the confines of her weak body. Between her chest and the mat, the Rare Earth Stone lay safe, kissing her pounding heart.

For how long she passed in and out of consciousness, as well as through all intermittent stages, she could not know. Occasionally, she was lucid enough to appreciate rapping on the cell door. It sounded like the pealing of distant bells. From somewhere outside, vague slivers of conversation flowed in. The words were garbled and each one shimmered in her eyes like a rainbow.

Only once did she have the inclination, and the consciousness, to open the hatch in response to thumping. The simple task required a great deal of effort and fumbling. A tray stuffed with meats and bread greeted her. The clouded Acaanan accepted the offering obtusely. As she reached for the food, a growl nearby startled her. A dog was baring its incisors. The poor canine was emaciated, each rib clearly outlined. A wreath of flies buzzed around its spotted hide. The dog looked somewhat familiar. Clearly, it had another fate in mind for the juicy morsels. Lakif flicked a chunk of meat in its direction and quickly pulled the tray within.

The Acaanan was finally rousted from her cell by pounding. Consciousness chased away a dream of an old hag eviscerating a goat. The witch was searching for something among the slimy loops of entrails. What a perverse dream, she thought! Lakif’s mind still bobbed in Lucretia’s wretched wake. At first she thought the ruckus was all in her head, but quickly realized that someone was beating on the hatch. Her reflex fear was that the monks had surrounded her cell. She scrambled to compose her wits.