The Venomancer

II.1 - The Wolves' Weakness

"No!" Tan cried up at Cassa atop his horse. "Bastard! You can't do this to me!"

The ropes chafed Tan's wrists raw as he staggered in tow behind Cassa's mount. The great brute, bigger than any he'd ever seen before, had a shiny amber coat, braided black mane and ugly, flaring nostrils.

Cassa gave him a cursory glance over his shoulder. "Then you shouldn't have troubled yourself running away," he replied.

Tan yanked indignantly at the rope in his grip. Brightly coloured onlookers in the central avenue stopped about their business, ogling the public humiliation of a peasant by their esteemed Painted Guard. A few children had emerged by now and their eyes went wide at the sight of him.

"You thought you could back me into a corner!" screamed Tan. "Thought you could blackmail me! But gods curse you thrice, Cassa Faro; you've changed! Who do you think you are?"

He tugged again on his tether and the horse let out an angry grunt at the jolt; Tan was not strong enough to so much as faze the creature. He dug his heels into the floor instead, but the smooth granite only made his feet slip from underneath him and he toppled backwards. His head cracked off the ground and the impact sent thunder crashing through his skull. His High Farban audience erupted in bashful laughter, and yet, dazed, Tan barely heard it. A slow trickle of blood snaked its way down the back of his scalp, soaking into his hair.

"Quit squirming like a babe. You'll give yourself a neck injury before we're even in the lowgrounds."

Tan clambered to his feet again, the blood now at his collar. The long afternoon shadow of the steel gates loomed over them on their approach, and members of the Painted Guard parted their ranks to allow Cassa's horse through.

One of the guards - his cheeks and brow adorned with inked snake's scales- stepped forward with his lance parallel to his shoulder. He seemed to have a quaint glimmer of admiration in his brown eyes and the sheer height of him made Tan feel like a gawking infant. His shadow went on forever.

"Good evening, Captain Faro."

"Captain?" Tan fired.

"Quiet, you," Cassa bit back. "Continue."

"Yes, Captain. I beg you forgive my prying, but ... what are you doing? Why must you bind this boy and drag him from the city?"

Cassa shot Tan a snide glance, inhaled through his nose and then announced to his audience: "This ru'karash deceived me on a personal level," he told them, addressing guard, child and High Farban alike. Tan couldn't help but feel a tormented pang of awe. "Young or old, of foreign blood or no, no High Farban should take kindly to being made a mockery of on his own premises."

"What has he done?" asked the man. "If he's broken our laws then he must be sent to the palace for trial. Back that way." He pointed high up the slope towards the white, spiked behemoth in the distance.

"Don't insult me, Alimayas." Cassa rolled his eyes. "The boy's misdemeanour does not require their involvement, so I've granted this delinquent all the trial he needs already. He's guilty: that much I can vouch for. And yet he made a cheap attempt at escaping due consequences."

"Understood." Alimayas gave a stiff nod. "What will you do with him?"

"I will to take him to the Western Wastes and teach the boy some High Farban respect. No weapons save what he can find. Of course, I have the advantage, but it should get the message across. Men, I shall return by evenfall. See to it that the lamps around my villa are lit before then."

"Can you do that? F-Fight the boy, I mean. I don't think you are acting accordingly ... if I may say so."

"Alimayas?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut your trap and move."

Wounded, Alimayas tipped his head and rejoined his ranks. He signalled for the gatemen to open the doors and Cassa kicked his horse into movement, jerking Tan along behind him. The two sets of giant doors creaked apart as they approached, and Cassa rode out onto the steep road to the foot of the slope. At last, Tan felt a reprieve from the graveness of Farba'al Mar, even though his injured head throbbed like an angry stallion bucked inside it.

The great capital of the Farban Empire perched proudly on the shores of what had once been a colossal lake. The waters retreated centuries ago, yet the bleached wooden docks of Gamlakh still stuck out the face of the cliff like splayed fingers. The skeletons of ships that littered the dry lake bed for hundreds of miles were the only remnants of a booming fishing industry. Farba'al Mar, towering and majestic, had once looked out over the Lonely Waters, serving as a vantage point and a keep for the fishing families in times of conflict ... though long closing its gates to the rising number of commonfolk since the calm. After the separation, the High Farbans became an isolated culture - people who put their trust and money in forces that most other nations outright avoided.

Kuzoroism.

A pseudo-religion, a hierarchical organisation bent on rising above and beyond the capabilities of humankind, or, as Tan was forever ambivalent: 'An exclusive guild steeped in tradition that aimed to impart the gift of 'sophisticated', curricular sorcery'. Once the nameless practice of humble northernlanders, an enthused Esijr native called Vingund Sil Forr introduced the art south of his homeland, shepherding the forefathers of what would later be recognised as an institution of foreign sorcery. It was a place of learning they promised to those born with the potential to heal the warring province's wounded, although, anybody on the opposition considered the institution no more than a symbiotic cult, manufactured by the sovereign to gain this godly advantage.

As far as Tan understood his people's version of events, the forefathers in fact kept themselves out of the sovereign's affairs, though they hailed from Esijrek, notoriously barbaric themselves, so he couldn't be sure of the truth. In modern times the Order of Kuzorocari educated potentials in a further six disciplines, making seven in total, and relied on clientele from the city. Whatever Vingund's real ambition for his legacy, Tan could be sure the first ever Rera was turning in his crypt.

The trail down from the city forked half a mile from the gates. To the left Tan saw the town of Gamlakh, coiled around the lee of the citadel and larger than he remembered, and to the right he saw the endless orange desert; barren, ominous wasteland studded with white trees as far as the horizon.

Thankfully, Cassa steered his horse down the left path and the weary fishing town spread out before them. The guard paused where the road dipped below the line of sight of the watchtowers and dismounted from his amber.

"You never told me you were a captain," Tan blurted. "Maedhros' name, what have you done to earn a proper title?"

"Nothing spectacular," he said, and untied Tan's binds. "Beasts slew the former captain during the Felling of the Fiends and, as his deputy, the responsibility fell on my shoulders. I failed to bar the ghûls from the city that day and wound up fatally injured in the process, and yet General Jaikham offered me a captaincy in the late Athgharu's place. Like I said: it's not worth boasting about. Well acted back there, might I add."

"My trade relies on spun lines and role-playing, my friend. And not so bad yourself; much better than your first tale regarding some ball game, I'd say. Though the rope was excessive, wasn't it?" He massaged his reddened wrists.

"Necessary, not excessive," Cassa grunted.

Tan felt for the wound at the back of his head and his fingers came away slick and red. He wiped the blood on the filthy knee of his trousers before Cassa saw it.

"Now," Cassa continued, purposefully straightening his silks. "Where is this friend you speak of?"