The Curse of the Winged Scorpion
Aramantine

Aramantinewas as different in appearance and ambiance from Remenes as black from white.Remenes wore her history with confident grace; her people were proud of theirheritage but gracious to visitors. In contrast Aramantine was a city forever onthe brink. The kingdom of Aramant was the last frontier between the humansphere of influence and the wilderness of the Battlan Steppes and the cityseemed to have been built to withstand a siege. The city was enclosed by agrand total of five curtain walls. The circular outer-most wall was ten feetthick and carved of the dark, green veined granite the kingdom was famed for.It rose fifty feet into the air. The city itself was built on a high rockyhill, and each of the interior walls, wrapping around the city in concentriccircles of decreasing circumference, climbed the hill to the apex, where thewealthiest citizens of Aramantine huddled atop the peak surrounded by massivecannons aimed eternally across the Steppes. The humans resented and mistrusted thenon-humans who lived and worked in the lowest circles. Sharp-tipped towers roseas high as the walls in every circle, and the tops of the towers were adornedwith massive carven faces, twisted into ferocious, cruel scowls; from theSteppes the city’s spires looked like spearheads rising above the walls, glaringwith monstrous faces. It was hardly a welcoming sight.

Theview from inside the walls wasn’t much better. The train station was situatedin the Third Circle; the production hub. The grey pre-dawn sky turned a salloweye on smoke stacks and corrugated iron roofs. The station itself was a largeimposing building that had seen better days; the green tint in the stone gavethe building a sickly aspect. A steady drizzle seeped from the sky and the airwas thick with an ever-present humidity oozing in from the Steppes. Thesharp-sweet reek of over-ripe garbage wafted from an over-flowing refuse binand papers littered the foyer floor. A huge brass clock stood sentry in themiddle of the station concourse, and the deep rhythm of its pendulum seemedlike a particularly ominous omen to begin their stay in the city. The fewstation guards active at this time eyed them warily, Fantel especially. Thestation guard made a point of closely scrutinising their papers.

“That’snot allowed here,” he said, rifling through their papers for the third time,not even bothering to look at what was on them. The man, a wet-eared whelp withthin, colourless hair clipped close to his scalp and bad skin stared at Fantelopenly, a hairsbreadth from hostile.

“Pardon?”Rashari was groggy and irritable. The hour or two of sleep had just given him aheadache.

“That,”the boy pointed at Fantel. “S’not allowed here; it’s got to go down to Fifth.”

Rasharilooked from the whelp to Fantel and back again. A muscle in his jaw ticked.“Fine,” he ground out, snatching their papers back. “Do the trams still rundown there?”

“Notthis early,” the worker replied, smiling unkindly. “And we don’t allow them on the tram anyhow. You’ll have totake the stair tunnel.” He jerked his head indicating a round entranceway setinto the far wall of the station. Rashari muttered something impolite under hisbreath, resettled the satchel strap on his good shoulder and strode off towardthe darkened tunnel. Fantel looked back at the worker briefly before fallinginto step behind Rashari. The worker sneered and made a rude gesture with hishand. Fantel ignored it.

Smellingunpleasantly of urine, the tunnel mouth opened onto a steeply descendingstairway. The convex walls and rounded ceiling were painted a drab white anddaubed in crude messages and anatomically incorrect pictograms. The phantasmalights set into recesses in the ceiling flickered maddeningly, casting misleadingshadows onto the stairs. Five flights later they stepped out into a dimly littunnel. There was a derelict slumped against the wall surrounded by filthybedding. It was impossible for Fantel to tell if the derelict was a man or awoman, or even what species they were. Matted yellow-white hair fell over acraggy, reddened face, and a single milky eye gleamed wetly up at them as theypassed. A gnarled, bony hand darted out from the lumpy mass of ragged blankets.The beggar’s fingers twitched arthritically. Rashari dropped a handful of coinsinto that outstretched palm. The fist snapped closed quickly around the coinsbefore Fantel could work out if the coins were real or not.

Atthe end of the passageway they came to yet more stairs, descending even more sharply.After the first four flights Fantel’s feet were aching and Rashari’s face waspinched with strain. She did not relish the thought of having to climb back upto the train station.

“Thesestairs go all the way down to the fifth circle?” Fantel asked simply to confirmher own fears.

“Yes,”Rashari bit out. He started to reach out with one hand to steady himself butjerked his hand back sharply when his fingers brushed the slimy walls.

Theycontinued on in silence. The endless crawl of passageway made Fantelclaustrophobic. The walls were dotted with the occasional torn advertisement buteven those grew monotonous after a while. She could not hear much of anythingand the rainbow glare of the phantasma lights hurt her head. Shadows seemed tocrawl across the walls and gather around her feet. Her spine twitched. She didnot like being underground, surrounded by tonnes of rock and stone. The soundof music and the hint of rain in the muggy air was the first indication Fantelhad that they were close to the exit. Grey daylight - thick and heavy– broke through the haze of phantasmalight.

AnOgdegre with shorn horns wrung a whining tune from a wooden flute just outsidethe tunnel exit. His sat hunched over his instrument, and his dark greenishskin looked very dark against the white cotton of his shirt, his large feetwere bare. The Ogdegre’s mournful tune chased her heels as Fantel stepped outinto the heart of the fifth circle.

Therewas rubbish piled high on either side of the unpaved road. A slurry of rawsewage wound its way through the piles like a slow moving river wending throughmountains. Lean-to shacks with ply-board roofs and rusted sheet metal walls,sprouted in clumps up in untold numbers on either side. She could feel eyes onher from every shadow. She had forgotten what it was like in Aramantine’s slum,the memory excised from her mind before it could take root. It had been over adecade since she had last set foot in Fifth Circle. It had grown worse in herabsence.

Theypassed an open cesspool, scum swimming on top of the vile waters, and continuedon toward the dark and stocky buildings ahead. Everything was brown and greyand dead. There were no trees or greenery. Above their heads the sky lightenedfractionally, daylight breaking behind the wall of cloud. A factory whistlebleared somewhere, calling workers to a nearby mill. Phantasma gave way toold-fashioned gas lighting, the blue flames jittering inside glass boxes atopstreet lamps as they passed. As they left the shanty town the buildings becamemore substantial, but no less disreputable. The road widened, irregularcobblestones and pot-holes making the ground treacherous. Three human men, unwashed and bleary from anight of too much drink, loitered in the doorway of an abandoned tanner’s shop.The men watched the two of them pass with red rimmed, angry eyes. Rashariignored them, but Fantel made sure to meet every gaze head on, meeting eachinsipient challenge directly, communicating with a look that she was anythingbut an easy mark. All humans in Aramantine were terrible people, Fantelremembered, but the humans trapped in the Fifth Circle were by far the worse. Theysaw it as a mark of their disgrace that they were forced to live amongnon-humans. It made them bitter and far more malicious.

“Weare attracting notice,” Fantel murmured softly. She flicked her gaze from sideto side. People were beginning to filter onto the streets, urchins perching ondoor stoops, factory workers trooping toward the fourth wall gate, queuing withpaperwork in hand to be allowed to pass through, and street vendors pushedbarrows toward a makeshift market. “Do you have a plan?”

“No,”Rashari sighed and stopped walking. He watched an ogdegre woman, her hornsdelicately curved like a young ram’s and painted in shades of pink and blue,lay out a selection of breakfast pastries. “Food,” he said determinedly, “and abed or a pallet, or somewhere tosleep in this godsforsaken dump. Beyond that, I just don’t bloody care.”

Fantelquirked an eyebrow, amused. He sounded like a petulant child. She steered himover to the low retaining wall encircling the small market place and pushed himdown to sit, wrestling the satchel containing all their money –real orotherwise - from him as an afterthought. She walked over to the ogdegre woman,keeping one eye on Rashari the entire time.

“Whatcan I get you?” The woman asked her, low voice sweet to the ear. Her head hadbeen partially shaved at the sides and high up her forehead, and the remainingblack hair was tightly plated to hang like a rope down her back. The woman wastall, as all ogdegre were, around six and half feet. Her skin was daubed inblue tribal marks, a large rectangular stripe running down over her right eyeand cheek creating a marked contrast to the natural dark green shade of herskin. Her large hands swept over the selection of meat pastries and sugar bunson display. She wore several gold rings on her fingers, the metal tarnishedwith age and wear.

Fantelpicked out two small savoury pies – she was told they were filled with pigeonmeat – and two spiced buns filled with almond paste. She scrutinised the coinsbefore handing over what she thought were genuine Aramite sovereigns. “Mycompanion and I are looking for a place to stay.” Fantel said lightly. “Do youknow place?”

“Onethat accepts humans?” The woman flicked her gaze over to where Rashari sat.“Well, you’ve obviously got money – I’d suggest The Last Step, the pub over bythe outer wall. Fintan runs it. He’s a bastard, even by human standards, buthe’ll do right enough by you if you can pay his prices. Else wise you could trythe Refuge, Andras runs that. He’s one of them Cloisterers; he’ll give you asquare meal and a safe place to sleep if you can stomach a sermon or two alongwith it.” She proceeded to give fairly detailed directions to the Refuge.Fantel thanked the woman and walked back to Rashari.

“Eatand then we will replace a place to sleep.” She pushed a pie into his hands.

Rashariblinked at her, and then looked down at the pie. He started eatingmechanically. Fantel doubted he knew what he was eating. Fantel ate a littlemore cautiously, but the food was good. Fantel told him what the ogdegre hadsaid.

“I know about the Last Step,” Rashari saidwhen she’d finished. “Bed bugs the size of dinner plates.” He shook his head.“I’m not much for the Cloister but if I’m facing lice infested sheets andquestionable hospitality either way I’d rather not add insult to injury bypaying for it.” He glanced her way. “What about you?”

Fantelshrugged mildly surprised that he had even asked her opinion. “It matterslittle to me.” She had nothing in particular against the Cloister. As far asshe was aware Cloisterers had no special prejudice against non humans, ornon-believers. Cloisterers also tended to be adept healers, and Fantel wonderedif a healer might be available to tend to her arm. The cuts were no longerbleeding, and she healed quickly, but the wounds still throbbed and a new dressingwouldn’t go amiss.

TheRefuge was situated in an old stone building within the shadow of the fourthcurtain wall. Fantel remembered this building. It used to be a bank. Grand andimposing the bass-relief frieze of four wild horses fighting a dragon, thecrest of Aramantine, was covered in grime. The broad front steps leading up tothe building were cracked and strewn with rubbish and the once ornate columnswere covered in peeling posters and scrawled insults. The doors were ajar, awash of phantasma light spilling out onto the damp grey stone. The sound ofseveral voices carried from within. They slipped inside.

Theinterior of the building was much like the outside, the remnant of formergrandeur clinging to the high vaulted ceiling and wide echoing chamber.Wagon-wheel sized chandeliers dangled from the ceiling and strings of phantasmarope lights dangled like moss from the chandelier frames. A horseshoestaircase, grand and sweeping, curled around the back of the room leading to amezzanine floor above. A huge grime-encrustred window filled the back wall, sofilthy the daylight could not break through. A human man stood behind a lecternin front of the window, addressing the crowd.

“Donot be fooled; this law will be our doom. Do not let the serpents of empirepour poison in your ears. Do not believe their honeyed lies.” The speaker, facered with broken capillaries and rough-shaven, had the wild eyed look of azealot. He flailed his arms and looked perilously close to falling over.

“Aniochand Valkieres conspire against us with every breath; they are fashioning anoose for our necks. Mark my words; the Statute of Universal Animancy Licensingwill be the writ of execution for our great nation. It is this law, my friends,which we must fear above all else.”

“Thislaw will help us!” A woman in the crowd shouted back. “It will get the damnednecromancers off the streets and all them fake healers as well.” She tossed herhead to look around at the rest of the audience, the phantasma light catchingon her horns. “Who cares if the Adrans came up with it? There’s too much badmagic on the streets. My boy Idek was cursed by a mage – he’s never been rightin his mind since. Enough’s enough. Drive the mages and necros outta of thecity.”

Therewere murmurs of agreement from the crowd. Fantel had heard murmur of theAnimancy Licensing law while on her travels. The law was a joint initiativebetween the great rival empires of Dushkuland and Adra, an unprecedented pieceof diplomacy, which had raised more than a few eyebrows. The statute sought tocontrol the use and prevalence of magic in Aldlis. If Dushku and Adra couldforce the smaller nations into compliance on this matter it would mean aunified cross-borders law controlling the use of magic. Every magic user fromAramantine and down to Cynium would need to be licenced and registered.

Sucha thing had never been attempted before, and at present every country hadindependent laws governing magic, must of which differed dramatically.Necromancy was presently illegal in Tabris, Dushkuland, and Aramant but legal –with certain provisions – in the Adran Empire and Messonya. All magic wascompleting free and uninhibited in the Kitvik Badlands, which was more or lessthe reason the region had gained its name. As a wayfarer Fantel had been hiredto deal with more than one magical disaster or another, where an insufficientlytrained mage had summoned a monster they could not control. There was also athriving magical black market, mostly for necromantic weaponry but Fantel hadonce collected the bounty on a rogue mage who had set up a scam businessselling spirit familiars to the gullible. The spirit creatures he’d summonedhad caused a lot of damage. The trade in smuggling contraband necromanticweapons had given rise to the growth in Raider sects. Outside of the slavetrade, magical contraband smuggling was the raider way of life.

“No!Do not let their lies poison your minds.” The man at the lectern shouted, eyeswild with fervour. “Friends hear me! This law will give the imperials controlover us! If we accept this law we are throwing open the doors of our greatnation to our enemy. The Dushku will rob us of our power through thisgods-damned licensing! You wait; soon there will be no Aramite healers left!Because we - the good people of Aramant - will not be able to afford thelicenses – we’ll be dependent on the Dushkies and their Pit damned magic.”

Moremurmurs rose from the crowd, different now, less certain than before. Thespeaker had struck a chord with his audience. “He’s right,” an elderly ogdegreman murmured, his deep voice rumbling through the crowd. “And it’s not just theDushkies. Adra will push for the adoption of their necromancy laws. Soon we’llbe flooded with Adra’s cast-off deader guns. They won’t even need to invade;they’ll just sit back and watch us destroy ourselves.”

“So,what?” The same woman who had spoken before demanded, her voice high andstrident against the turning tide of the crowd, “We let things stay the same?Let the Raiders walk all over us? Most of the lay-healers are crooks anyway;charge a king’s ransom for a damn salve. The licensing will stop all that.”

Numerousvoices erupted from the mixed crowd of humans and ogdegre, dissenting opinionflying thick and fast until the sound of loud clapping silenced them all. A manstood at the top of the staircase, framed by the big window. He wore theoff-white robes of an ascetic and his rich dark hair fell over his shoulders ina careless tangle. A luxuriant beard obscured most of his face, but Fantelcould see humour in his startlingly green eyes. The man had the dark olive skintone of a native of northern Dushkuland. “Friends, enough,” the man said. Hisvoice warm and mellow for all that it sounded quite young. “We gather here fordebate, not acrimony. Come now, breakfast is ready. We can debate such weightymatters far better on a full stomach, no?” The young cleric descended thestairs, gesturing for the dispersing crowd to pass through a side door and intoan antechamber where the welcoming aroma of hot soup escaped.

Fanteland Rashari stayed at the back of the room, watching the crowd trickle throughthe door until finally it was just them and the cleric. The cleric immediatelyheaded their way, smiling behind his beard, arms held wide in welcome.“Welcome, friends. My name is Andras. How can I help you?”