At the Menagerie of Beasts [or My Unnumbered Torments at the Hands of the Villainous Magi, part II]
You curse to yourself loudly as you stumble over a meddlesome brick, your sandaled toe stubbing painfully on the edge. Must this condemnable foreign city assail you at every turn? As night falls the dimly lit street is quiet apart from the scene you are causing, and a handful of passers-by garbed in black robes and shawls stare at you curiously. You wipe the sweat from your brow and try to get your bearings, peering about at the tall brickwork estates crowding in on either side; your master - no, you forget yourself! Your master abides still in Valia! - your host has invited you this night to attend his famed menagerie in the spectacle square, and so you go. It is your duty to know all that passes here amidst the men of Ashrai. Of course - you think quietly to yourself so the gods don’t hear - it would be foolish to pass up such an opportunity to gaze upon remarkable beasts from furthest lands. It is a tale you will tell for the rest of your life.
The cacophony of the crowds is all around you now, but search as you might you cannot find your destination, and you walk quickly and angrily up and down the street, every building and crossroads managing to look the same. You jerkily shamble through a small archway, your limbs themselves seeming to disagree with you. Your tall Haronian escort saunters languidly behind, cradling his poleaxe gently in the crook of his arm and singing a strange song to himself - isn’t he supposed to be leading you? A bird caws at you loudly from a windowsill and you shriek as your heart hammers in your chest! Your guard chuckles softly as the bird flutters off into the night. You turn away, now filled utterly with despair! The sight of a brightly lit red tent greets you nonchalantly from down a short alleyway; its surface swims with shadows cast from within. A suspicious frown crosses your face as you squeeze past an awkwardly placed crate at the end of the alley, freed at last from that labyrinthine and oppressive maze.
An angry Cunic nobleman dressed in finely woven colourful hatching almost knocks you over as he barges by atop a tall horse, a crowd suddenly seeming to materialize as you emerge onto the edge of the square. You know better than to get stuck in this! You dart quickly for the tent, weaving between a throng of very unhurried Hurriyan grandees and a mob of uncharacteristically inebriated and obstructive Titanians haphazardly jostling each other as they bet over the impromptu revelations of an unusual deck of cards. You pay them little mind as you latch on to the side of the gargantuan peaked tent, struggling to find a way within. The heavy red hempen fabric lifts suddenly - you knew it couldn’t all be silk! - from a gap in the paneling, and you scurry underneath. You chortle triumphantly as you gain entrance to the tent, your head smacking unceremoniously into a wooden beam supporting the high scaffold seating that rises immediately before you. This all seems very unlikely, and you know once more without doubt that you are truly abandoned; the gods couldn’t hear you even if they tried. The seating vibrates with the thrum of the audience as they laugh and holler at the hidden spectacle.
You cast around furtively and spy a patch of light beneath, and perhaps your way to freedom. You scramble and crawl between the closely set beams towards it. As you clamber closer you notice a cluster of cages hidden in the gloom tended by three undressed servants. You start to sidle past, but pause sharply as a shape rises in its cage, growling. A black-furred wolf favours you with an evil look, hackles up as it snarls. It darts to snap at you before you quickly pull away from the cage with a gasp, the phantom sensation of a bite unmade burning the back of your hand with pain, the sensation lancing up your arm. The naked servants rise and turn to you, and you see before you three beautiful women with the heads of wolves atop their shoulders, amber eyes peering at you intensely. You flee backwards wordlessly from this new horror, struggling through the gloom, scraping against the rough-hewn scaffolding as splinters pierce your tender flesh. You cry out in agony and hatred as you drag yourself along the inside-edge of the tent, battling weighty folds of fabric and the sharp corners of the bleachers. Bastian! Bastian has done this to you, that devious and shameless man! He no doubt delights at your abandonment and tribulation, smirking to himself with self-satisfaction as he sups on exotic roots and iced honey-wine. You yell his name aloud as you careen haphazardly out into the vestibule of a stepway leading up, a shaven-faced usher in a red tunic regarding you with concern from his post near the entry-flap. He raises a hand politely as you begin to explain yourself in garbled Ashraic. “We are all told of you, sahan. The entrance for good men of station is this way,” he says, gesturing back out into the night, pointing you towards a set of guarded braziers not even a hundred meters further on. The jacketed cataphractoi nod to you with familiarity as you pass within, a well-lit and furnished tunnel of wooden panels leading you on a gently curving path. Servants pass you peaceably bearing empty vessels of food and drink, and you surmount a small set of stairs, stepping out onto a wide platform.
The great circular floor of the menagerie sprawls to one side, cleverly lit by a network of hanging braziers and mirrors, a crowd of thousands hooting raucously to the show of a dozen handsomely muscled gymnosophists performing competing feats of strength while shouting high-minded falsehoods for the bizarre entertainment of the audience. On your other side the dais of eminences stretches long and away, dozens of personages seated grandiloquently at their low table of disgusting foreign judgements, lording themselves over the frivolities. Your eye catches your nefarious and malevolent host as he peers at you inscrutably - noticing your attention he waves excitedly, motioning you over towards him, a bright and friendly grin plastered all over his scheming face. You will explain to him that you have enjoyed your time here among his people, but must depart immediately, your homeland and your master await you and - you pause as a waft of incense washes over you and a strange feeling worms its way into your mind. You realize you really shouldn’t be so high-strung, it simply isn’t good for the humours; you’ll catch your death of consumption if you don’t settle your nerves. You grab an iced honey-wine from the platter of a passing attendant and down it in one long gulp. Bastian continues to watch you with amusement as you approach, a single eyebrow rising as you sprawl heavily on the cushions beside him. “Ah, sakhim. I had wondered at your arrival, but I see my worries were misplaced. Like a true Valian you will always forge your own way, and I cast no judgment on this. But before we begin our discussion, watch for a moment as Isythye carries out that which I have,” he says good-naturedly, gesturing towards the open platform.
His veiled witch from the exotic and furthest east stands before the crowd, reading aloud from a scroll held closely before her. Her words ring out clearly as the audience falls to silence and a gagged and struggling man is tied to a post in the middle of the floor, wooden boards placed behind him. “An impudent and impertinent messenger comes before the Holy Magi in the hours of darkness. As the law of the Lady Moon decrees, he shall be punished harshly! He is sentenced to be shot with bees until he is dead!”
You must have misunderstood that last part. Surely not with bees. How would it even be done?
“You understood perfectly, sakhim. Do not doubt yourself so. Attend, and you shall learn much,” your host says, the masked beekeepers rolling their ballista out from a hidden nook beneath the stands. The thwomp of machinery and the buzz of insects fills the tent as the audience watches with enrapt attention. The man screams incessantly as the bees sting and bite him, their flung hives breaking with speed upon his body or smacking into the boards.
“It may seem an archaic way, but we must not discount the past to inform us of what must be done in the present,” your host continues, a light seeming to come into his eye. You say nothing as you sink further into the cushions and the tortures continue, the fight leaving your spirit. Perhaps you've been unkind. Ungrateful, even. Bastian has been nothing but gracious and welcoming. You regret your temerity, and resolve to be a better guest. Your host dismisses the spectacle from his attention, and his focus seems to burn upon you. He favours you with a knowing wink.
“Now tell me truly, my boon companion. What have you heard of the beggar that gives, and of the poison that salves?”
The words of your voice cannot find you, but vellum and stylus is placed gingerly before.
And so you begin to write.
~~~
By a Wine-Dark Sea [or My Unnumbered Torments at the Hands of the Villainous Magi, part I]
The sun sets in the west, and a long shadow is cast before you, reaching towards a distant and darkened sea. You gulp nervously as you approach the crossroads atop your donkey. Fields of tall wheat ripple in the wind at the roadside; the air smells of sea salt and flowers.
It has been a far journey - you are sore, exhausted and in want of a bed. You have endured many weeks of hard travel among strange folk since your departure from the as-yet debatably Valian land of Elcius, but you carry out your master's bidding; you must glean what there is to be gleaned, and know what there is to be known. Three figures garbed in dull red linen jackets await you at their ease by the signpost ahead, girdles of bronzen scales still shimmering in the fading light. They sit atop fine and well-bred mares, coats of beauteous and deepest brown.
"Ah, sakhim, we have looked for your arrival. Be welcome, for you are in Ashrai," the leader says in surprisingly well-spoken Valian, a great grin spreading across his dark-bearded face.
"I am most honoured, and eagerly anticipate your Lord's hospitality," you reply formally in practiced Ashraic.
"Then come, for it is good to be acamp when the Moon's law rises," he says in his own tongue. You take the easterly road. It is quiet, but after a wide turn about a small rise you are greeted by the sound of strange music and the bustling hum of an army on-the-move. The camp is well-organized to your eye, surrounded by a ditch and wall of stakes - near Valian in its quality and placement, you realize sourly.
You come to a gate and observe on one side a group of blue-painted Canirii, gazing upon you darkly, drumming their fingers impatiently on artfully crafted pommels. On the other side stand three dusky-skinned men of immense proportions, standing at least seven feet tall, great poleaxes held languidly and relaxed - they incline their heads and smile as you and your escorts ride past.
Peoples of many unfamiliar nations are gathered here with their accouterments, and the smells of a hundred foreign cuisines assault your nostrils. You recognize Ashavans in their lavish furs, and stocky Myrians in their conical hats. Grim Titanians from Sind scour and oil their coats of mail while Haronians sit peaceably nearby, cutting oblong purple fruits and frying them in oil. Ashraic cataphractoi with their plaited beards jostle each other and laugh, mingling with wine-drunk Evvics from Cylene as they roll dice at the fireside. You note that near-all seem to speak the language of Ashrai as a common tongue.
Chanting groups of darkly-dressed Ashraics bearing the Veil Banner emerge along the wide avenue as the night deepens, lighting standing torches at regular intervals. A crimson pavilion waits for you ahead, heart-like at the camp's very center. It beats with light and sound as folk enter and leave. Your escorts salute you graciously as they part the entrance, ushering you inside. You only realize the entire enormous edifice is woven silk when it brushes gently against your shoulder.
A waft of incense washes over you, and you cough and sputter at the strange fumes. Oh, the indignities that you suffer in your master's name. Curtains and cushions spill in every direction, servants bearing silver plates circulating among the grandees with endless food and drink. Reflected flames from golden braziers light each nook and corner, tended carefully. Voluptuous dancers sway rhythmically to the high lilting of foreign flutes, their bodies lithe and lustrous with oil. You feel stunned by the clamour and cacophony, the excess and wealth. For a single moment you could swear you see a man with the head of a goat playing a brass horn amidst the crowd. Your head reels as you stumble towards the high dais, desperately seeking out your host. It sits empty, and you feel utterly abandoned amongst the enemies of your people, surrounded on every side. You curse your master's name, and beseech the gods that they deliver you from your tribulations!
A firm hand grasps you warmly by the shoulder, and a stout man in a deep crimson robe steps up beside you, the well-oiled and intricate plaits of his beard glimmering black in the brazier-light.
"Sakhim!" he near-shouts in exuberant greeting "We have waited long for you, and are most eager to hear your master's words. Know that I am the Magus Bastian, and that you will be my boon-guest - and soon my friend, God willing" he continues, seeming to note your discomfort. "Ah, yes. Our nights must be of some small strangeness to a man of your customs - but we do as we are bid by our God's mistress. It would not do to anger the Lady beneath her own light!" he laughs, pulling you aside to a secluded pair of cushions.
Seemingly from nowhere he produces a silver goblet of iced and honeyed wine, placing it gingerly in your hand. You slurp greedily as you sink into the luxuriant cushion, quenching a thirst you didn't even know you had. You think to yourself that it would be troublesome to rise - but fortune smiles upon you, and you have no desire to do so.
"Now come, my friend, and tell me all there is to tell of what passes in the lands of Valia. Tell me of what your master knows. Tell me of the child with the golden eyes…"
He grins widely, his teeth white and polished, and you find yourself smiling back. For a moment you feel like you're forgetting something, something your master said, perhaps. But for the life of you there seems to be no reason not to do exactly as you've been asked. It is only right to repay the kindness and benevolence of your host.
And so you begin your tale.
---
Annals of the Echthroi - Book of Ashrai
a fragmentary excerpt
The foreigner Bastian's origins are shrouded in mystery, and little is known of his earliest days save that in a far land he rose amongst the ranks of the Magi for his devotion to their God Ahtan, who is the sun. In battle Bastian won many victories against the men of Sind, and so in turn earned the love of the men of Haron.
Bastian enters our record suddenly, and in Ashrai's hour of greatest need: the Emperor's son Carantius had boldly pursued the invader Hestus (a. Huzasht) back across the strait of Myrmisis and into the heart of Ashrai, pinning him in Sataraphon - their Heavenly Capital of Capitals. Woe was upon that land, and many were burned and slaughtered amidst civil strife and invasion. Unbeknownst to both, the Magi of Ashrai had marshaled all the armies of the east, and they marched to save their realm from the depredations of the Apostate and decadent Valia alike.
With charm and guile and the aid of shadowed allies, wily Bastian and the army of the Haronians entered Sataraphon through a secret way beneath the walls and the encircling siege. They came upon the Apostate suddenly in the dead of night, and many of his men threw down their arms and begged the mercy of the Magi - some among them were spared, for their God had need of them still. Hestus' Immortal Guard fought bravely where they gathered, but they were too few, and the Apostate was thrown down beneath the light of the moon.
As dawn broke Carantius and his legions looked out upon the city and wondered at the plumes of smoke - but the walls were manned much the same, and no sign was seen that might betray the Priest-General's plan. It was then strange horns were heard, and the low chanting of barbarous tongues. A glittering thunder rounded the edge of the Holy Mount Khibar, plumes of dust rolling behind. The Cataphracts of Ashrai had come, and many more besides. With characteristic efficiency and discipline Carantius rallied his legions into line, yet even they began to hesitate and murmur when they saw what approached them from beneath the rising sun.
As the golden tide of cavalry split into wings, behind them came all the gathered panoply of Ashrai: archers on camelback who began to pelt the maniples from beyond reach, laughing and riding away. Then came the last of the fish-scale imitation legions of Arezah and Geddai, whose like had wrought much destruction in Hateph. They guarded the flanks of a great phalanx of far-eastern Titanians marching to the beat of steady drums, willing forsakers of their legacy and long servants of the Magi. As the Ashraic line formed opposite the brave Valians it opened and spat forth a wave of terrible beasts: trumpeting elephants afroth at the mouth, and armoured rhinoceroses eager to feast on flesh - at the heels of the cataphracts and camelry ran packs of dusty yipping wolves, leaping and tearing on command at the Valian equites and their mounts. The Valians were shaken, but they held as they were assailed, for Carantius rode back and forth like a beacon, and the legions rallied to his call, pelting the elephants and rhinoceroses with darts and driving them off.
But just as the Ashraic phalanx ground up against the Valian legions in a tumult of steel and blood, more horns were heard from behind. The gates and ports of Sataraphon burst open, and out from the city a golden and terrible figure led a host of men like trolls - their thick and ashy hides proof against arrows, and their bellowing war grunts rousing terror in the heart: they stood nine feet tall and bore gruesome man-splitting axes. Behind them came the Moon's devotees, garbed in blackened armor and eerily silent, and yea even the last of the Apostate's men found faith and courage renewed and joined the charge of their countrymen.
Yet still the Valians resisted, fighting stoically on two fronts against all the gathered horrors of the East - for they were led by brave Carantius, and the men would not fail their beloved champion. This Bastian knew, and so he sent his most skilled and wicked archers to set an ambush for the Emperor's son. They dipped their bolts in cruel poison and waited from behind a well-placed rock for Carantius to ride past. Their volley nearly missed, save one bolt that grazed his arm. Seeing blood upon their Lord the Valians began to despair, and Carantius reeled and cried out in pain from the evil poison. His men gathered him up as he slumped from his horse, and with that the equites broke at last before the cataphracts, and then the legions too began to waver and flee. Many Valians escaped that slaughter, for even in defeat they are hardy and enduring.
The Magus Bastian captured a pair of eagles for Ashrai on the fated Day of Two Battles, adding them to three still unrecovered. This humiliation rankles the dignitaries of Saia to this day. Many say that a Prophecy from his God then drove fell Bastian, and he did much to put Ashrai to order beneath the rule of the Magi. He would revenge his nation upon the Valians, and this would be its beginning; the strait of Myrmisis crossed again some two months later.
- Manephanes of Tisbarion, c. 850 FA
