Chapter XV - Phobos - Zukan

After two thorough head counts, and a third for good measure, Zukan counted thirty-six men and two women in their company. Plus the two foreign rebel leaders, this rounded the number up to an even forty. The implication of that number gave Zukan a chill. This is f*****g insanity. Forty was the number of states in the old Maege Empire; it was the number of gods in their pantheon; it was the number of Righteous Paths in the book Life Under a Red Sky, a revered tome written by the philosopher Shamlak Tsutsun; it was even the number of candles lit in the Misty Sept in Zephias; their forty flames had been burning for millennia. The number held enormous significance in the west, significance Zukan could not just ignore as coincidence. This is f*****g insanity! The former maege bit at his nails, chewing them down to the cuticle. He had never been this nervous in his life.

The plan had been discussed, albeit briefly, but it did little to nothing to soothe the former maege’s nerves. After turning in their requests at the counter, the questarix informed them that, due to the number of applicants, they would likely be split into at least two groups, and pre-assigned them before they all left the guild. The smaller team bound for the krima-processing area would be spearheaded by Jiro, while Zukan and Khared son of Bilo would lead the larger portion of the group down to the main excavation chamber. Khared’s woman, who introduced herself as Audra Strongarm, would be going with them as well. By the looks of it, the two of them were inseparable.

Once Jiro took control of the workers in the processing, they would regroup in the main chamber to begin the second phase. Hopefully, through either rallying or riot, they could amass enough men into their makeshift army to march on the capitol building. It was a plan; a foolhardy one, but a plan to be sure.

If some fancy words and some sideshow magyk could win over this lot of sand-heads, Jiro should have no problem. But it was not Jiro he was worried about. Some of the workers - the group leaders, the men wearing the green vests - would have to be killed in order for the rebels to assert their dominance over the crowd. Many of them were likely just faces in the crowd, like the rest of the workers, but their position of power over the laborers made them an easy target. Zukan and Khared would have to hold down the main chamber, or keep a low profile, until Jiro returned, and considering the company he kept, a low profile may not be an option.

 The small army was directed toward the worker barracks, directly adjacent to the pyramid, the side of which was gated off behind small wooden construct.

“With all that krima down there, I can do whatever magyk I want,” Jiro remarked to Zukan as they walked.

“Do not go overboard,” Zukan replied. “We need some of the workers alive.”

“Those who wish to wake the Pale may resist at first, mister magyk-man,” Audra cut in. “But once they see the true Phobosi rally to you as we did, they will value their heads over their convictions.”

“Don’t we all,” Jiro quipped.

Within the worker barracks, a rather stocky man wearing a green vest, his fate already sealed, led the small army out the back door and around the side of the pyramid. “We must use the rear entrance now,” the green-vested Phobosi explained. “There was an… er… unfortunate accident with some rebels, and the main corridor has collapsed. Those involved were punished accordingly.” Zukan noticed the man was missing his left hand. How unfortunate. He may be one of the first to be cut down, and he may have been one of our supporters.

The pallid sandstone bricks of the ancient corridors were embellished with hieroglyphs similar to those they’d seen on the walls of the mausoleum in the  desert. The pyramid is only 300 years old, though. Zukan contemplated, trying to turn his focus to something other than the rapid pounding of his heart. The settlers of Phobos must’ve had extreme reverence for their ancestors. The corridors wove in and out without end. Had it not been for their advisor, they’d have all been entirely lost. Good thinking on Jiro’s part. Now we have a guide and allies. It certainly beats storming in without a plan.

Like the first temple, the long hallway opened up into a much larger chamber, the stony stature of the Pale-Faced God looming overhead. And like the first Sentinel, Zukan could almost feel the life force of the ancient beast, sealed away under layers upon layers of rock. The jewel that crested its forehead was colored turquoise.

Zukan looked over at his traveling companion, whose shoulders stuck out with confidence. “Are you prepared for this?” Zukan asked. “This is going to get bloody.”

Jiro turned to look at him with a smirk. “I’m more than prepared.” He stuck out his tongue, revealing three small pieces of paper. Zukan noticed his pupils had nearly swallowed his iris whole. “You just hang back and pick off the stragglers.”

A small part of his fear evaporated with that. Mixing hallucinogens with magyk… the boy is more of a maege than he may think.

“Behold, foreigners, the splendor of the Pale-Faced God,” Khared son of Bilo leaned over to say. “Does the sight not humble you?”

“I can feel her power,” Jiro replied, the drugs kicking in. “The power to turn mountains to dust… and cities to graveyards.”

“This is what we do for the glory of our god,” their one-handed guide said in an almost painstaking way. “And for the love we bear for our Magnate, who has graced us with his presence during this project. He is the one who developed the labor program, so if we catch you slacking, we will see you punished.”

Zukan immediately turned his attention to the crowd, where he saw a man wearing flowing purple robes and a tall hat to match, surrounded by a four-man honor guard. What a considerate ruler, Zukan thought with spite as he watched the Phobosi nobleman crack  a whip at some nearly skeletal men. Likely he is just here to see that his little project goes off without a hitch.

Another green-vested man approached the large group. “This is Jhed, those of you who have been assigned to krima processing should follow him.”

“See that fruity-looking guy, the one who looks like a plum.” Jiro whispered to Zukan before departing with his crew. “No matter what happens, you save him for me.”

Zukan gulped and nodded.

“There are pickaxes and shovels to your immediate right,” the one-handed man instructed them. “Once you’ve equipped yourselves, report to section N-7 to begin your excavation work. Praise the Pale.”

The area in question was where the man who had just been whipped by the bright-robed noble lay quivering. The group approached, and Zukan knelt next to the man. He was doubled over with pain.

“Why has this man been punished?” Zukan asked those around him. Some of his small army had already acquired pickaxes.

“He was caught stealing,” a youthful Phobosi with deep hazel eyes replied, retrieving the incapacitated man’s shovel and slinging it over his shoulder. “The old fool had been slipping chunks of krima under his robes every night for the past two weeks. We told him he would get caught eventually.”

“It is not that simple,” another man chimed in, this one with long black hair tied back in a pony-tail. “He was not paid the wage he was promised, and he had already taken out a loan in order to provide for his family.”

“He is lucky to still have his head. The loan-reapers would have him and his family killed.” The youth spat. “Money will not matter when the Pale is awakened and brings in a new era of prosperity.”

“The Pale will destroy us all, you fool!” The whipped man rose to a knee, wincing and clutching his stomach. Zukan helped him to his feet. “Are you so green you can’t smell a bull’s s**t when it’s right in your face?”

“You don’t know what it’s like, boy.” Khared son of Bilo cut in. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever known to be true dashed to the ground, desecrated before your very eyes. Your alliances change like a leaf in the wind, wherever’s most convenient. You don’t know what it’s like to take a stand for something.”

The man clapped Khared on the back, a gesture of camaraderie. A whoop resounded from a few of those in attendance, even some of the workers chimed in. The hazel-eyed youth shrunk back. We have already won over some allegiances with what was essentially a feather-ruffling contest. This is not much unlike a prison.

“Thank you for coming to my aid,” the man said to Khared and nodded to Zukan. “I’m glad to see not all new recruits are as submissive as the rest of this lot.”

“Never content to just roll over, are you, Gildan?” A bulky fellow wearing a full, dark beard and a green vest approached the crowd. He stood behind the hazel-eyed youth and put a muscular arm around his shoulder. “You should be grateful that your government is willing to give gutter-scum like you an honest, paying job.”

“If I bite the hand that feeds me, maybe it will show me some god-damned respect, unlike that s**t of a son of yours.”

The stocky man laughed. “My boy might need some abrasive, but I find his bluntness to be endearing. He speaks like a true Phobosi. ‘The path of least resistance is the path to true prosperity.’”

“You would take the path to a pigs a*s if it meant you got to put your c**k in something,” Gildan smirked. Laughter resounded from the workers. “You may wear one of them fancy vests, but don’t act like you’re better than us. Remember, you’re down here with us.”

The stocky man grew flushed, clutching the whip at his hip like he was about to crack it. Zukan swallowed his heart back down into his chest and made a bold move, standing in front of him and cutting him off. “What was your trade, before you had to enroll in the labor program?”

Zukan saw the burly man’s eyes soften. “I worked at the forge, refining iron for the foundations of many of he city’s buildings. When the Magnate ordered his new palace built, it drained the mines, forcing most the city’s forgeries to shut down.” He looked up from the former maege to the crowd that surrounded him, then back down. “I see what you’re trying to do here, mister. Many have tried and all have failed. The sooner you just get a pickaxe and get to work, we Phobosi can go about our peaceful lives.”

Zukan ignored him instead, turning around to face the crowd.

“Gildan, what was your trade?”

“I owned the damn finest lumber mill this side of the Crimson Sea!” The old man thumbed his nose. “Until the damn Magnate ran out of iron and bled us of our finest oaks and conifers!”

Audra chimed in. “Mercenary work used to make me a decent living before the Magnate doubled his city guard. Awful hard to headhunt when you’ve got a battalion of armored soldiers beating you to the punch. Our own guild has been outsourcing requests from Midden just to stay afloat!”

The bearded man cracked his whip. “I only tell new recruits to get to work once, and I do not extend the same luxury to veterans.” But it was too late for crowd control. Many of the workers had begun calling out their old professions; cries of ‘baker’, ‘shoemaker’, ‘coinchanger’, and the like arose from the crowd. The bearded man appeared panicked. Zukan was tempted to shout ‘globe-trotting Zuul-hunting maege’, but didn’t want to press his luck.

Workers at stations other than N-7 had noticed of the clamor, joining the rest of the workers in their chant. They raised their pickaxes and shovels and thrust them high above their heads. Some green-vested men had taken note as well, encircling the ever-growing crowd of dissenters.

Zukan felt a swelling in his chest. “Your Magnate cannot save you from a miserable life, he is the one who forced you into it! If he succeeds in awakening the Pale, he will only be placing your people into an even finer mess than this.” All of this over a few words. This diplomacy thing is mighty fine.

The bearded man looked to his comrades outside the crowd for support. “I will tell you once more, get to work.”

“You cannot give us orders.” Khared spat. “We both answer to the same god, but you have forsaken yours.” With a violent jerk, Khared son of Bilo drove the sharp end of a pickaxe into the bearded man’s throat, forcing him to his knees as blood frothed at his lips. “The path of least resistance is the path of a man with no convictions. I can see where your son gets his cowardice.”

The hazel-eyed youth screamed, but the rest of the crowd cheered. The other green-vested men moved to retaliate, but could do little to break the crowd with their whips and short dirks.

“Brothers, today we tolerate this blatant affront to our sensibilities no longer! Break free from your bonds, reject false authority, and fight for what you know to be true!” Khared thrust his own bloodied tool above his head. “Fight for the Pale-faced God!”

“For the Pale!” The crowd returned with a thunderous roar. Within moments, the green-vested workers nearest the small army were either bleeding out on the marble and granite floor, or had been taken hostage. With that, they had the attention of the entire chamber.

The battle erupted as if they were a pack of starving dogs suddenly keen to a fresh cut of steak. The rebels, now numbering something in the hundreds, rallied on the right side of the chamber, faced down by an ever shrinking number of revivalists and their green-vested allies on the left. Those who were caught up in the madness, confused who was fighting who and why, clutched their tools like a lifeline and made themselves as small as possible. Zukan procured his hand-and-a-half sword from beneath the folds of his cloak. He and Jiro, like all the others, had been frisked for weapons before they were allowed to enter the pyramid, but the former maege and his traveling companion had more places with which to conceal their blades than their light-robed Phobosi allies.

The one-handed, green-vested guide charged at Zukan, dagger aimed straight for the gut. His brief training did not fail him, and he surprised himself when he twirled around the short blade to grasp his assailant by the stump, twisting his maimed arm around his back and holding a blade at his throat. It is not terribly unlike fighting with a bloodletter, but weapons of steel are just so cumbersome. If his instincts hadn’t accounted for the weight of the blade, he might have found himself with an unwelcome addition to his digestive system.

“Stand down, friend. I have only your best interest at heart.” Zukan whispered to his new captive.

“Please, you can’t win…” The disfigured man whimpered. “They’ve already taken so much from me.”

“I cannot return your hand to you, but I can give you freedom. However, if you do not secure my safe passage through the crowd to the Magnate, I can give you freedom of a different kind.”

The man gulped down a sob, then began to walk forward. The rebels acknowledged Zukan, parting the sea of men until they reached the line of battle, where the former maege and his hostage received no such courtesy. Zukan had to make it very clear that the man’s life was forfeit if any affront to his person was made. He kept alert, eyes sweeping the room, gently poking his captive in the ribs with his blade whenever anybody got too close. When they approached the Magnate, secure between his honor guard and a stone pillar, the soldiers raised their blades and shields in opposition.

“Who has let this traitorous man through?” The Magnate whined, his voice shrill as a sharp wind whistling past a mountain peak. “For that matter, why has this little squabble not been quashed already, you fools? This project will go on without a hitch, do you hear me?”

The workers that surrounded the intruders, mostly vest-wearers, stood ready to strike, but stayed their blades. His rapport with his own people is weak, even down here.

“You have done this to yourself, Magnate.” Zukan threatened, returning his blade to his captive’s throat. “Your extravagance and wastefulness have lost you the trust of your people, and now you have dug your own grave right here in this chamber.”

“Such insubordination from one who is clearly an outsider.” The Magnate of Phobos approached Zukan from behind his honor guard, leaning out over one of their shoulders. “All of the commoners who have turned against me are selfish. They hold their traditions more tightly than the bread and water that sustains them. They use it as a crutch for their own greed, and they would love nothing more than to strip me of my riches. So tell me, foreigner, what is it that you want?”

Zukan chuckled his knowing chuckle. “Well, I see the Pale, and I see the ship-loads of krima you have been hauling deep beneath this pyramid. Yet, I am puzzled, what is all of that without a maege to cast the spell to awaken the Pale from its slumber, if that is indeed your goal?” The Magnate bristled at that question. “Forgive me, your eminence, but you simply do not strike me as the magyk type. So you tell me, who has contracted you for this project? Who has promised you more riches more than you have already obtained? Who among them could know the ancient magyk to awaken a Sentinel, let alone have the prowess to harness its almighty strength? By my best guess, you have signed a contract with the wrong sort of person.”

The Magnate of Phobos stood up straight, scowling deeply, and took a step back. “Kill them both,” he ordered. “I grow weary of this rebellion. Make an end to it.”

Well out of Zukan’s field of view, a small red blur caressed the air above the heads of the crowd, striking a member of the Magnate’s honor guard firmly on the head. He stumbled. All who had witnessed the bizarre event whipped their heads around in confusion while Zukan identified the flying object as it fell to the ground; it was a large crystal shard of krima. Another whizzed by overhead, clattering several paces from Zukan. It was followed by another, and then another, like crimson hail falling overhead.

A roar of voices pierced the din of the battle; Jiro was charging in with his krima-processing allies from the corridor behind them, his mission an obvious success, their arms full with crystals of krima that they tossed as they ran. He is laying out a floor plan, like a magykal mine field. That must be some fine lyserg he has gotten his hands on.

The moment Jiro had thrown his last chunk of krima, a black, magykal aura flickered around him as he activated his bloodletter with ease. He cut down his first foe without batting an eye, and in a flash, he seemed to teleport to the nearest chunk of krima on the ground. Men in green vests fell left and right to Jiro’s deadly dance. The Magnate’s honor guard fell in around their liege.

“Do not think that your foul tricks will help you, outsider,” the Magnate barked at Zukan, who still stood fast with his hostage. “The city guard have been made privy to this little insurrection. They will be here in mere moments and this farce will be squashed like all the others.”

As if on cue, a torrent of armored soldiers cascaded out of the corridor in the opposite corner, running down any rebels in their way with their longswords and spears. Many of the militant workers gave way to the chaos of battle. Pickaxes and shovels were swung without caution, their morale replaced with fear for their own lives.

With despairing futility, Zukan whispered, “Sorry,” and slit the throat of his captive. In the distance, Jiro still raged on, slicing through guards like they were made of parchment. If anyone can regain control of this crowd, it is Jiro. While the guard has their attention focused on him, I should regroup what few people I can to storm the capitol. Zukan shivered, his nerves fried. But first, I need a moment to compose myself. He spotted a third corridor, smaller than the others and free of conflict, to his immediate left, so he stole moment down the shadowy passage.

Zukan immediately vomited, wheezing and clutching his chest as he spat up his meager breakfast. The recoil of his withdrawal hadn’t hit him as hard this day, but it did not stack well with his anxiety. “Has being stripped of my magyk truly left me so spineless?” He asked himself.

“Oh, Zukan. You’ve always been spineless.” A familiar chill cut through Zukan as the effeminate ethereal voice resounded in his head. He felt his ears pop in a way they hadn’t popped since he was a lad being introduced to magyk for the first time. Zukan whirled to meet the face of someone who he thought he’d never see again; a face with mottled green scales, slitted yellow eyes and a horn-and-a-half of soiled ivory.

“Kai’toh,’ Zukan spat the name as if it were a curse.

“In the scales.” The creature dipped a mocking bow, its missing horn causing its head to sway awkwardly as it rose.

“We banished you and your dal’Zuul brethren to the Shadowfel centuries ago. How have you ventured this far west?”

It smirked. “If you thought the Shadowfel could keep me sealed like those lumbering Zuul, you’re even more of a fool that I’d thought. We’re much smarter than those dim-witted beasts. We remember those who have wronged us.”

Zukan did not need to ask what the foul creature was referencing. What seemed like eons ago, before Sayaka’s consciousness had even begun to form, Zukan and an army of maege had faced down a rebellion in the heart of the west. Kai’toh had rallied a massive legion of dal’Zuul - creatures whose blood descended from the Zuul themselves, diluted by millennia of interbreeding with humans but retaining their affinity for the myst - to lay siege on Zephias. The radical legion had called themselves the Spiteful, taking vengeance on those who had oppressed their ancestors. Armed with their bloodletters, the army maege repelled them easily, and in the ensuing battle, it was Zukan who had taken the horn of Kai’toh.

“You would see Phaedyssia burn over a three-hundred year old grudge. That does not seem like a healthy mentality.”

“Ah, Zukan, my dear old friend,” the dal’Zuul chuckled. “Phaedyssia must burn, if the Zuul are to reclaim the land that is rightfully theirs. That Shadowfel you maege so kindly gifted us is so drab. It cold and wet, the sky is always covered in clouds, and the mountains are so sharp and ugly. It’s an unfit place for anyone to live.” The creature folded its arms and legs, balancing itself on nothing but its spiny tail.

“However the world doesn’t revolve around you, Zukan. My grudge goes back thousands of years. Our meeting is pure coincidence. You can rest assured that I had nothing to do with the events that unfolded in Lissium, well, little to nothing. That foolish boy was meddling with the arcane, that bloodkin descended of its own accord. I honestly didn’t even have to lift a finger.” Kai’toh smiled at that, revealing a row a jagged teeth. “But imagine my great pleasure, seeing you at the Bloodmoon festival. The thought had occurred to me of disposing you once and for all, but, once more, events unfolded miraculously in my favor. Zukan the deposed maege, a freak like me. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined something so delicious!” It stopped to laugh just then; a prideful laugh that sent a chill down Zukan’s spine.

“You’ve caught me monologuing again. Forgive me, this is entirely too enjoyable. Watching you squirm and writhe is much more satisfying than your death could ever be.” Kai’toh hopped down from the perch of his tail, casting his gaze out of the corridor to the chamber where the rebellion raged on. “Your friend out there is quite impressive, I must say. Slaying a bloodkin is no easy feat.” It turned its eyes back to Zukan. “Let’s see how he fares against a bloodkin and a Sentinel.”

Kai’toh disappeared in a flash. In his place hovered a tiny horned creature with a jagged maw and two bottomless pits for eyes. The bloodkin flitted over to Zukan, peered deep into his soul, then giggled in an eerily human way. With that, it zipped out of the corridor like a bee in search of honey.

Zukan felt his stomach drop in a way that made him want to vomit again. It is probably the only beneficial thing I can do for myself right now anyway, he lamented as he retched.