The Darian Shroud (Original Fiction) - Chapter 1

The Darian Shroud - Steemit Linked Table Of Contents

1 One Bell

One of the most spectacular sights in all of Tholen Dar is the sunrise among the sails of Tharthen. The golden streaks of light shot rays through the tack and sails of the massive windjammers while projecting rainbows through the spraying surf of the Sunstir Sea. The farthest Northern reaches of Tholen Dar were dotted by port cities along the great ocean; the sea had been crossed by ship only a handful of times and Tharthen, being the largest of those cities berths more ships than all the others combined and is the only port city with access to the river Hund as well, cutting a thin artery through the peninsula. The river, mostly navigable for all but the largest vessels of the imperial fleet, joins the Sunstir Sea and the Tholen Gulf, greatly increasing the effectiveness of the imperial navy. Indeed Tharthen has proven an extremely important city for the empire.

Jehss Karaway waited the telling of one bell, he handled the taught hemp rope greedily, holding it close to his chest, taking care not to ring the bell too soon. The acolyte took great pride in his duty; his performance with the bell had been flawless for five moons and this morning he would not be in the business of breaking his practice. The sunlight began to peak through the small nook above eye level, reaching swiftly toward the mirror that waited on the far wall behind the acolyte for the tight beam. Dark robes hung fitting loosely around the small man, and his shaved head shined in the golden sunlight that was slowly filling the chamber. Dust swirled in the morning air and defined the sharpened edge of light greatly but Jehss kept his eyes forward.

He was a small young acolyte, obviously too studious for the imperial guard, his delicate build was certainly not adapted for armored combat. His beard had not begun to fully fill his boyish face and the small brown freckles that dotted his cheeks resembled that of a boy so young he might still be learning his picture words, the written language of the less privileged. Jehss continued his vigil for a few more moments and finally the time was upon him.

The sunlight pierced the surface of the mirror and was instantaneously reflected onto numerous other mirrors, for an instant the room flashed – a trick of the eyes while his pupils adjusted – as the acolyte gripped the rope with white knuckles and pulled as hard as he possibly could. He was blinded for an instant, when the light flooded the small chamber, but his hold on the rough hemp rope did not falter and the bell tolled a single chime that sounded throughout the entire vast port city crisply, despite the thick humid air.

First bell was always the most difficult. Jehss had to still the rope before the bell swung back and struck the clapper again, lest he be removed from his duty as bellman. He was successful in stemming the second ring prematurely, and after the bell had ceased swinging entirely he let his grip on the hemp strands relax. He breathed a soft prayer to Shonah the Angel of the Sun, thanking him for another day and moved to the seat in the chamber where he would spend the next six bells reading. The mirrors of the tower along with a single shaft – a style for a massive sundial – kept the bellman ringing the hour throughout the day. The entire setup was profoundly simple and yet extremely accurate.

Jehss ambled to the bellman’s station, took a seat, and opened his research manual, his bellman position was suppose to take second priority to his studies and he had better pass the next test or he would again feel the sting of being switched. The clergy was unforgiving to acolytes who could not keep up with their lessons and maintain an additional side duty. His book appeared today to be one filled with exciting tales of Angels and Champions, of magic and illusion, war and peace, this read would be truly inspiring.

Sift – many floors below the bell tower’s sunroom – was awakened from a night terror by the intensely strong vibrations of first bell, he knew the sound of the bell and it chimed in his head although he could not physically hear it. He had been dreaming of a transcendent, brown and white horse, a beast with hooves the size of grove melons. The rider and this ghost mount chased Sift through marshland and beaches, always nearly capturing the old cleric before the reverberant tolling of first bell awakened him. He thanked Shonah for delivering him from the evil terrors his dreams had begun to wreak upon him since his last visit with a client of the clergy’s most discreet of services.

Sift sat up in his small bed, and tried to analyze his dream further, contemplating the man sitting atop the mount, he had never seen the man before, at least, not before he had undergone the transformation into a messenger accepting the magical cataracts, blinding him from the surrounding world. He had adapted well to the change, he could effectively navigate the entire temple from memory with very little trouble, after all he had spent his entire life here from acolyte to high priest, and now messenger. His room had no windows and only one door, the single wooden portal claimed the east side of his chamber, it was the only object set in that wall, his bed sat opposite the door resting easily on the cold stone floor with few objections and creaks. Not that Sift could have heard the creaky protests anyway. The deaf and blind clergyman rubbed the sleep from his eyes, a strange habit that hadn’t seemed to decline, and yawned widely. His breath was putrid and he cursed his enhanced sense of smell once again while he began his morning ritual.

Sift, swung his legs to the side of the bed and firmly planted his feet onto the cool stone. He sighed in protest as his appendages began to awaken, the needles he felt were intense this morning and his imagination always placed him in some far away kingdom’s torture chamber while his legs awoke in the morning. The stone tiles below his calloused feet cooled his blood and relieved a bit of the heat from his body, he gave his warmth willingly on late spring mornings such as this. His room would reach extreme temperatures during this time of the year, the summer especially, despite the fact that it was directly in the center of the temple cut off from the sun’s direct rays.

Sift was startled and his heart skipped a beat when he smelled the intruder. Oil and leather, steel and sweat all at once wafted in when he felt a draft from the door to his chamber, as it swung wide. He knew the man was due, the Executor, he smelled too the familiar scent of his animal companion, Falon the golden brown canine that served as his eyes and ears outside of the tower, and tracked down assassins during times in which new assignments presented themselves. Sift knew the Executor who had opened the door, his scent was familiar, he was happy his pet had brought the one man whom Sift felt even remotely comfortable giving assignments to. Most other executors intimidated him greatly, although he was powerful, he was not stupid and the assassins that the clergy trained for murder were not to be trifled with. Nevertheless, he would not waste any time.

Falon issued an excited but low whimper and scampered up onto the bed to sit with Sift, she curled beside him and licked his hand and he stroked behind her ears. She was always happy to be finished with the hunting missions he sent her on; tracking down the assassins was a job only the hounds were permitted, lest an executer’s location be revealed. Any man who tried to follow a dog to its destination often found the wrong end of a blade explaining why he should have taken into consideration the fact that waiting on at the end of the trail was a trained killer, it was always a one sided conversation.

Sift felt the door close behind the executor, the odor of the assassin carried on the sleight current of air that brushed the blind and deaf man’s face lightly. The breeze was still tickling his nostrils when he felt the assassin beside him, lightly sitting opposite Falon and taking Sift’s hand in his own. The two men touched fingertip to fingertip and the assassin proceeded to bat out a series of prescribed combinations forming words on the elderly man’s fingers: the language of the Shroud.

Falon has found me again. The assassin’s fingers modulated deftly. It certainly took an unequivocally dexterous individual to communicate in the Shroud. Sift was sure this man was by far the most nimble and assumed that even if he still had his hearing, he would not have heard the executor move about the room.

I am glad... I have an assignment. Sift was only slightly nervous, straight to business was this one. The others enjoyed toying with the old cleric, testing his patience and his humility every time he explained a mission. This one was different somehow. He did not show compassion, but there was certainly no malice either, he was simply the job. The man’s body odor was musky, as though he had been sweating lightly throughout the night, riding from a remote village where Falon had found him most likely the messenger deduced.

Sift proceeded to give the assassin as much information as he could about the identity and whereabouts of the target. His heart was pounding swiftly and his legs had fully awakened, the needles gone, he had all but forgotten about his night terror by the time he had finished with the executor.

Sift felt the movement of air currents on his face and knew the assassin had gone by Falon’s attitude adjustment as she rolled onto her back scratching her spine with Sift’s bedroll. He rubbed her belly and tried not to think about the man who would soon find death, tried not to think of the night terror.

Sift was still in his night dressings, the small chest to the north side of his room contained the remainder of his belongings, a small colorless robe and a waist tie. He would take Falon to the ocean today, forget about his duties and bask in the sun for at least three bells.