Casting Shadows - Chapter 2
“The lord Hashut has leant you this power but - as with all things - it is merely borrowed.” - Words attributed to Xarathustra
Enlil Shazzar’s bare feet crossed the mosaic floor, heated to temperatures intolerable to humans yet soothing to the skin of the Uzkul Drath Zharr. The hypocaust was heated via geothermal vents deep beneath the fortress and unlike the pungent aroma of his dining room, Enlil’s bath house smelled of acrid brimstone.
In the centre of the ornately tiled room was a circular bath, with water bubbling within. Enlil walked a few paces towards it and closed his eyes. A smile crossed his wizened features.
“Ari, my boy, you would have to do better than that.”
The thin hobgoblin, dressed in matching blue robes to his master and wearing a red cloth hat upon his head, lowered the golden curved blade that was raised above the dwarf’s hunched back.
“You see with more than your eyes master,” he replied in a thin voice.
The dwarf chuckled and extended one arm out sideways, the other remaining hidden beneath his Cathayan cloth. The hobgoblin sheaved the ceremonial dagger and began disrobing the sorcerer prophet.
“One day, I will kill you master,” said Ari conversationally, “one day, you will not see.”
Enlil chuckled as his blue robes fell to the ground, “and that is why I trust you, Ari. You can be trusted to be distrustful. It is those who would stab me in the back without ever drawing their blade, whose actions I cannot see with or without my eyes that concern me.”
Ari cocked his head attempting to comprehend this and then apparently gave up, switching topics.
“Your bath is as ordered master. The water bubbles as if the fires of Our Father himself were below it.”
Enlil had been proud of his pet slave’s rudimentary understanding of the god of the Darklands. Although, he internally considered that it may have been a literal understanding of the volcanic vents beneath them that had inspired the hobgoblin’s observation .
Ari had been taught cunieform and basic scripture. His understanding of theology was limited but his ability to record the words of his master was unparalleled. Much to the chagrin of the literate castes within his tower, the hobgoblin was his defacto chief scribe. Their fury at this arrangement made it all the more delightful.
Enlil-Shazarr had been with Ari so long that he had forgotten what it had been to live without him and his daily promises of murder. He held the greenskin in his highest confidence.
“The affliction, it worsens?” Ari said cocking his head once again and looking at his master’s left arm.
Across his chest and pressed against his pallid skin, it was clear that most of Enlil’s arm had been transformed into a coal, black stone.
It had begun as a small rash on the back of his forearm six moons ago. This patch of skin had blistered and burned and ,once healed, been replaced with a cracked stone surface. It had begun to spread, and had quickly consumed his flesh. Now his left arm was a useless lumpen weight, frozen in time, clutching at his chest.
The surface of his arm no longer hurt him, nerve endings and flesh were rendered into dead mineral content. What pained him was the edge, near his elbow where flesh fought stone and slowly fell back in retreat.
“The water soothes the pain, my boy. Help me in.”
Ari took the prophet under his good elbow and helped him step into the bath. It looked hot enough to boil a lobster alive, but the dwarf sighed in relief once his corpulent body was submerged to the shoulders.
“There is a cure?” Ari enquired.
“No my boy. This is a curse. A blessing. It is our father, being given his due. Each time I draw upon his power, I owe him a debt. Our father takes back what is his.”
“This will spread?” Asked Ari, folding the prophet’s clothes into a neat pile.
“It may. Each time I draw upon him I risk further affliction. But I am strong. I can control it.”
“This will kill you, master?”
“I intend for it not to Ari, not yet, I still have so much to do…” the prophet closed his eyes and prepared to doze.
“This will not kill you,” the hobgoblin explained in a matter of fact sort of way.
“No?” Said Enlil opening one eye.
“No. I will kill you master,” the house slave smiled through crooked fangs.
Enlil returned the smile and then turned back and closed his eyes, “I’m sure you will Ari, I’m sure you will.”
Once dry and in his sleeping robe, Enlil- Shazzar was ready to retire to his bed chambers when he heard a noise in the courtyard.
Walking to his window he saw below, beneath the clear night sky, a group of infernal guard, in full battle dress being drilled relentlessly by Mardurkarr. Did he ever sleep? Had he become one of his infernal steam contraptions, an automaton with no need for rest and comfort?
“Ari,” he said, “I wish to take a walk before I sleep. You will accompany me.”
“As you wish, master” the hobgoblin bowed.
They passed down the winding staircase, lit by Ari’s oil lamp, footsteps echoing on polished obsidian tiles.
Eventually they came to Enlil’s court. The black throne sat empty and at its feet was bronze effigy of a bull’s head, with razor sharp fangs and an open maw.
Whereas many cults in the old world and beyond would raise images of their gods to the highest roof top, Enlil-Shazzar’s was beneath him, ready to consume both he and any who failed him.
Beyond the court and outside of the tower was the courtyard. Around this court yard were many complexes of administration, work, craft and art. Beyond that still, the housing of the lower caste Dawi Zharr and then the curtain wall and enormous gate. Few slaves lived in the city. Those that did slept chained to their tasks, like the ogre at the gate or in the dungeons beneath the tower. The majority of the slave populace worked and lived in the mines.
The fortress was a miniature city with its own social hierarchy and eco-system. Many of its residents were involved in mining, north of the city (or rather in charge of organising the slaves in the mines) or involved in either warfare or preparation for warfare on the desolate plains that surrounded the citadel.
Invasion was of constant concern. Ogre tribes, dwarven prospectors, human explorers and most of all ravaging orc warbands were all common threats to Enlil’s grip upon this region. Battle with these lesser beings yielded a near constant stream of slaves for the mines and sacrifice to the dark father.
As they entered the courtyard the prophet and his companion saw ten soldiers that had snapped to attention. With a bellow from their commander they took up a fighting stance and then with a third and final order they thrust forward their fireglaives, piercing the sandbags before them, hanging from a wooden beam.
“Impressive Mardurkarr,” Enlil observed.
“You do me honour Sorcerer,” said Mardurkarr but his voice was free from mirth. He did not turn to greet him.
“I apologise beardling, have you had enough of your old master’s words for one evening?”
“You are welcome to go as you please, the tower is yours.”
“It is, isn’t it?” smiled Enlil. The elderly dwarf walked to the nearest soldier, who was still awaiting his orders and stood frozen in motion, blade deep within the ash filled sandbag.
“Tell me, why do you drill these soldiers at night? They have chased away the orcs, and given our father his due, should they now not rest?”
“I noticed imperfections in this unit’s fighting when battle was met,” Mardurkarr explained, finally turning to meet the sorcerer’s gaze, “they fired a volley into the boar riders and then fell back like cowards. They must be taught to remember that the glaive has a blade.”
“Very well,” the sorcerer conceded, “proceed.”
Mardurkarr nodded and called once again, the soldiers snapping to attention, ready to begin the drill once more.
Enlil walked through abandoned workshops. Like open air market stalls. Tools were left where their workers had dropped them at the setting of the sun. It was empty now that night had fallen. In the morrow it would be alive with artisans, blacksmiths and daemonologist enchanters crafting arms and armour.
There was a clang of metal on metal like a hammer upon an anvil.
“Grazharr,” Enlil called across to the ironmonger working beneath the moonlight in one of the many workshop areas, “do you fear your wife so much that you seek the refuge of work over the warmth of her bed?”
“Sorcerer!” the worker exclaimed as if caught like a thief in the night, “is this forbidden?” Grazharr averted his gaze from the prophet, aware that his caste was forbidden to look upon him directly.
“No, but your work will suffer if you toil both day and night. Our Father would not be pleased if a single scale on a mail shirt was out of place. What do you work on at this hour?”
“It is a trinket. A simple thing.”
The smith took a step back and revealed upon his workbench a bull’s head icon ready to be worked onto a chain.
“In the day, I toil for the tower of Bezall. In the night, I toil for Our Father. This amulet is to bless my weapons and curse those that meet them on the battlefield.”
Enlil took the Amulet in his one good hand, the other hidden beneath his cloak, “And curse them it shall,” he said.
The palm of Enlil-Shazzar’s hand glowed red and the air around the two dwarfs seemed to hum. The glowing in his palm ceased and was transferred to the amulet which, just for a second, seemed also to glow. It was then handed back to the smith.
“Thank you Sorcerer Prophet,” the smith bowed low.
“It is Our Father you should thank, worker. I am but his conduit. Now return to your wife so that she may hate you up close.”
“At once.”
The worker downed tools and hurried away, stuffing the icon into his leather apron.
Once the worker was out of sight, Enlil gave out a muffled cry and fell to one knee. Ari helped him to not fall. The sorcerer clutched at his elbow where, beneath his bed robes, stone fought to eat flesh. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow.
“Master?” asked Ari in concern.
“Do not fear, my boy, it will pass.” After a moment he arose. “I have paid my due. Come - I tire - I must go to bed.”
“Yes master,” Ari nodded and walked with the prophet back towards the spire, supporting his dead arm, in case he should fall.
As they passed the entrance of courtyard, Mardurkarr thought he caught a glimpse of his old master, leaning on that treacherous goblin as a beggar may use a walking cane. He considered this for a moment and then turned back to the solider nearest him, “Do you call that a stab, you Grobi lover? You are trying to eviscerate a pig, not penetrate a whore! Do it again, and with hatred!”
