Prologue

Guardian Of The Talisman - Being the First Part of Falconara

Prologue: The Death of the Beast

The night sky in the east glowed scarlet. The orange glare of the dying flames danced on the pristine strip of snow, which separated the crooked fence with the burning houses behind it from the frozen river. Viceroy Setog stood on the top of a hill gazing down at the smoldering village. The cold wind drove away the smoke rising over the temple ruins. Shadows ran wild through the streets filling the air with screams—the last defenders were finished. Setog looked up into the sky strewn with fading stars of Songara. In the light of dawn, only the Warrior star, Toz, bright as a sparkling diamond, continued to shine for those who prayed to it for luck. Setog shivered with cold, sniffed the frosty air and gave a low growl. The captivating light of Toz evoked an all-but-forgotten desire to howl at the star, just as he used to do a long time ago, when he was free and when, after a long chase, he caught and killed game. Fighting the urge, he clenched the hilt of his sword, bowed his head, eyes closed. A moment later, he heard the crunch of snow, and the heavy stench of sweat mixed with blood filled the air.
“Your honor.”
Setog sensed fear and hate in the hoarse voice. He turned around. Gorvang, the patrol commander, watched him with caution. The large and broad Zangorean, the tallest in the assault detachment, barely reached Setog's shoulder. Gray flakes of ash covered the shaggy hair tied in a knot on the back of his head. The oiled leather armor gleamed under the dirty cloak trimmed with the tawny fur of a sandwolf. He was holding a bloody sword. When Setog stared at him, the Zangorean shifted his feet uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. Even he can’t meet my eyes, Setog thought with contempt.
“We found her,” said the mercenary.
The Master was right. The star has nothing to do with this. Luck is always with us.
“Her eyes?” Setog asked in a low muffled voice and sniffed. The smell of blood stirred up the deep emotions. Gorvang gave him a wary look, grabbed the hilt of his sword and stepped back, the snow crunched under his boots.
“Violet,” he said. “Violet as …” He looked around and pointed to the hillside. “Like a shadow on the snow at dawn.”
“And the marks?”
“On both her breasts,” confirmed Gorvang.
His cold breath reminded Setog that a long winter lay ahead. I hate snow. He gazed into the distance, beyond the dark blanket of the forest where the first rays of the sun gilded the bluish top of the Dragonback mountain range. Damn cold! Damn country!
“Bring her to me.”
He turned and started down the snow-covered slope into the ravine where the guards set up his yurt. Gorvang spat under his boots and looked at the viceroy’s back. “Filthy monster,” he mouthed. The Beast, as the mercenaries called Setog behind his back, was a hideous creature. His huge body, covered with dark fur, could be easily mistaken for a human if it was not for the monstrous head of a jackal. A stripe of the stiff black guard hairs ran from the back of his head down the neck and around his blunt muzzle. His clawed hands never lost their animal traces. The half-beast’s ugliness was bad enough to strike terror in the heart of the bravest men. But nothing could compare to his amber eyes, almost human, filled with flames of insanity.
“What about the rest?” Gorvang asked.
Setog stopped and turned around. Gorvang felt as if he should not have asked.
“It’s your loot—do whatever you want. But after that, as always, hang them all.”
“We don’t have enough trees,” said Gorvang, looking back at the village.
“You have a forest.” Setog pointed across the river.
♦
She was trembling either from cold or from fear, most likely from both. She was an ordinary girl. Nothing about her appearance hinted that she was the aena, the one his Master sought for so long. Setog put the goblet of honey wine on the table, leaned back in his chair, and examined her from top to bottom. The girl kept her head down and sobbed, wiping her tears with one hand. Her other hand clenched the ripped halves of the dress in front, trying to cover her naked breasts. A thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders—a sign of courtesy from Gorvang—did not warm her up at all, but at least shielded her from prying eyes.
“How old are you?” he asked, trying to sound as gentle as possible.
“Fifteen.” Her voice was weak.
“Come,” said Setog. “Closer.” Even sitting in the chair, he was towering over her. “Show me the marks,” he said, watching her closely. “Do not be afraid of me.”
Sobbing, she pulled the rags apart revealing the trefoil birthmarks. The Snow Sable signs. He reached out and with one clawed finger pulled a strand of fiery red hair from her face.
“Look at me.”
She shuddered, holding back sobs, and looked upon him. Her gaze passed over the terrible muzzle of the beast and shifted away. A tear rolled down her pale cheek as her lips trembled. Setog studied her face for a while. There was nothing special about her. If it was not for her violet eyes, she would be like hundreds of other girls, captured, stolen or purchased by him. The Master was hard to please. He rejected every single one of them: either he did not like the color of their eyes or the birthmarks were in the wrong spot or wrong shapes. This time, they had a good fortune. He had never seen such eyes. Yes, she is the aena. These are born once in a thousand years. He heard the rumors that their blood could work magic, but he could only guess the real reason the Master searched for her for so long.
He inspected the girl once again and with a wave of his hand dismissed her. When the guards took her away, he drew a curved dagger. Holding his gnarled long-clawed fingers over the oil lamp, he slashed under his thumb. A drop of blood flashed and fell into the flame, and then viceroy Setog muttered the Word.
♦
He did not have to wait for long. When the cold air touched his back, he turned around. A deep shadow thickened in the corner of the yurt. It grew before his eyes, spilling wide and black emptiness, absorbing everything around—a piece of the rug, a table, part of the walls. The icy wind breathed into Setog’s face, and out of the darkness stepped the Master.
Setog was pleased to see that this time, he came as a human. He did not know what the Master’s real face was, and every time he was about to see him, he stiffened, not knowing what to expect. Today he saw a tall old man, wrapped in a black cloak with a high collar. His face, with a flat nose and a wide thin mouth, was lifeless. From the right temple of the Master’s bald, skull-like head hung a lonely braid. Several sparkling gemstones decorated his short gray beard. His black, opaque eyes ran across the room, touched the rugs hanging on the walls, and fixed on the viceroy. Setog dropped to one knee and bowed.
“Setog,” said the Master resting his heavy hand on the viceroy’s head.
“We found her, my Lord.” Setog was looking at the Master with devotion.
He noticed the Master’s large pointed ears, pressed against his head, and for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps the Master created him in his own image. The thought made him happy.
“Would you like to see her, my Lord?”
“Later.” The Master crossed the room and sat in the chair. “I need to talk to you.” He gave a dismissive wave with his hand.
Setog settled himself cross-legged on the floor. For a long moment the Master stared at the flickering flame of the lamp. As a gust of wind shook the rugs on the walls, and the flame danced, the Master turned and looked at his servant.
“Setog, why do you serve me?”
The question took Setog by surprise, and for a moment he did not know what to say.
“Because I love you, my Lord.”
The old man leaned over, looked into his eyes and shook his head. “That is not true. You do not know what love is. You have only a dog’s devotion, but”—the Master sat back in his chair— “that is enough for me.” While Setog pondered over those words, the Master patted him on the head. “Do not worry. It is for the best. Love would bring you nothing but misery. Tell me, what do you want most of all in the world?”
“To serve you, my Lord.”
“And what would you do without me? If you were free?”
Setog hesitated. He knows everything, he thought.
“Then I would become the Master,” he confessed.
The Master nodded. “I had guessed at your secret desire a long time ago. But there can be only one Lord and there are two of us.”
“Forgive me, my Lord.” Setog bowed his head. “It was wrong of me to say such a thing.”
“You do not have to apologize. You served me well and I want to reward you.”
Setog pricked his ears. “My Lord! Your praise is the best reward for me!”
“Words …” The Master snickered. “Just empty sounds. You are worthy of a true reward!” He rose to his full height. “You will be a Master, but not here. I will send you to the Shadow world. There you will become the ruler and the Lord of the entire nation, and perhaps the entire world. It will depend on you whether the people worship you or another deity. Remember, the more they fear you, the stronger your power will be over them.”
At first, Setog did not know what to think. The dark rumors about the Shadow world were too unnerving and frightening to be a comfortable place even for a deity. Yet, what would be better: to be a god over there or stay a servant here? He hesitated just for a moment.
“Set,” he said. “They’ll call me Set, and I’ll be the ruler of the world!”
“So be it.” The Master nodded. “Now, the most important thing.”
From the folds of his cloak, he pulled out a small wooden box. Inside, wrapped in black velvet, lay a semi-transparent gemstone in the size and shape of a hen’s egg. It glowed and shimmered with different shades of green. A metal snake coiled around it; her eyes gleamed with ruby light. Inside the stone, a needle floated in thick heavy liquid.
“The Izmargahd!” whispered Setog. “The Egg of Life!”
He had heard about the legendary talisman but never thought he would see it with his own eyes. The talisman was the most sought-after treasure. People had dreamed about it and searched for it for hundreds of years. Some said the talisman could grant wishes; others cursed it, saying it carried the mark of forbidden magic.
Spellbound by its cool emerald shimmer, Setog reached out to touch it, but the Master stopped him.
“Oh, no! Do not touch it! It is very fragile.”
Setog looked up at the Master. “Fragile?”
“Like an egg. You will take it to the Shadow world. There the gemstone will become the hardest emerald in the world, the real indestructible Izmargahd.”
“I don’t understand,” Setog said, puzzled. “What should I do?”
“You do not have to do anything. Just keep it safe and cherish it. Your life depends on it.”
The Master paused, lowered his head, falling into deep thoughts.
“And mine, too,” he added under his breath.
♦
It was dark when the Master called for the aena. Setog hardly recognized in the young woman the terrified girl he saw several hours ago. Her white dress made her look like a noble bride of a wealthy family. She struggled against the guards as they tied her to a pole in the center of the yurt.
“I believe in you,” said the Master, finishing with his instructions. “I know you will be a great ruler. Farewell.”
Setog sat in a chair holding a small wooden box which grew heavier every minute. The viceroy’s ears flicked and trembled—he had never been so frightened.
“Will I see you someday, my Lord?” he asked.
“I hope not.” The Master pulled out a blade. “Do not be afraid. I will make it quick. We start with the aena. Her blood will help us.”
He turned to the girl. Her wide-open eyes froze in horror. When she saw the dagger, she jerked on the ropes and screamed. Setog closed his eyes and prepared to wait.
♦
The flame of torches flickered in the wind. It was well past midnight, but no one in the camp slept. The rumors of the Dark Lord’s arrival spread among the mercenaries, and everybody hoped he came to reward them for capturing the aena. They gathered around his tent only to find it surrounded by a tight ring of the viceroy’s personal guards. But it was not the guards who kept the mercenaries away from the yurt. Something terrible was happening inside. A deep, low voice muttered strange words that made everyone feel uneasy. As the flashes of bright blue light illuminated the tent, the snow around it melted and turned into muddy puddles. The tension filled the air when a terrible scream came from the yurt. The crowd fell silent. Some men grabbed at their swords, others stepped back, alarmed. A pale hand pushed the heavy curtain aside and the tall fearful figure of the Dark Lord stepped on the snow. The guards bowed their heads, and the mercenaries fell back—everybody knew of his terrible temper. When the yurt behind his back burst into bright flame, the crowd gasped, and the guards drew back, shielding their eyes. The howling fiery whirlwind circled the yurt, and the high flames rushed toward the dark sky. A roar came from inside, the earth trembled, and the yurt, engulfed in hot flame, crumbled. The wind drove the ashes, raising them in the air and spreading over the heads of petrified people.
“Setog … viceroy …” cried out voices.
The Dark Lord surveyed the crowd, raised his hand and announced in his loud and terrible voice:
“Setog is gone. The beast is dead.”