The Deal

There are grave consequences for those who strike bargains with blackened hearts...

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The “Shades of Night” Anthology:

The Chronicler

The Deal

The Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King

The Fall of Rodorhíep I

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The Deal

“Two Businessmen” by Unita-N

A crossroads at midnight was not a place for civilised people. Then again, the days of civilisation long since elapsed. These crossroads sat in an open field in the valley between two large mountains, which made up most of this nation. The snow-capped chain stretched for as far as the eye could see; to the West, to the East, curving Northward. They lay at the edge of the known world, nothing but unending mist beyond. This country was known as Rodorhíep. 

Up the path came a man. Lit up by the twin moons above, he could be seen clearly. He was cloaked in heavy, black material; hair was twisted into complicated plaits wound with a cloth. He came by ship, crossing through the moors in the East, through the black forests. Now, he was here. His name was Byzmor and he came to conquer.

At first, the man intended to merely raid and leave. This land, however, was rich. Those mountains upon which a city rested, topped tunnels of jewels and metals. Back home, far over the sea, he could buy his own kingdom a thousand times with the fruit of this place. 

As Byzmor walked toward a crossroad, behind him was the faded glow of an encampment and behind that, the burnt remains of six villages and many fortresses; remains of his first wave of slaughter. It was the easy beginning for what was sure to be a difficult battle to the top of the mountain.

He was about to make a dangerous decision. One that would forever affect those in Rodorhíep’s capital and ease his passage there. And there, on the crest of the highest peak sat  the city of Cidaen. She housed the royal family of Rodorhíep for thousands of years. 

The would-be conqueror blew into his hands to ward off the cold, turning back to the dirt road before him. One moon was closer than the other, the first hanging in the air like an empty bowl and the second glowing a faded red. It was a strange night. The air was frosty but so clear in the light that each breath he released could be seen. Silver coins rattled in his pocket, singing with each step he took. 

What Byzmor wanted was simple. He only needed to do it where roads intersected. 

He stopped at the centre of the crossroads and looked around once more. It was silent. Not even the trees whispered. 

Inhaling, the man knelt. He reached into his cloak and produced a book. It was old; what was left desperately clinging to its spine. Gently, he leafed through the pages and began to draw symbols.

In truth, he was unsure what he was doing. This strange book was in one of the abandoned huts he found on his journey into Rodorhíep. Amongst the wives he took, he found one that was able to speak a common language. After much convincing, she explained what the inscriptions meant generally but would go no further. It was, as his new wife said, “bad magic”. That mattered not to Byzmor. All he wanted to know was whether it worked.

So, he found himself following the directions with the hopes that something beneficial to his cause would come of it. Their king was weak but the skill of his warriors that stood between him and the capital created a frightening enemy. 

Many times already Rodorian lords caused him strife, two in particular. Cousins, Lords Dion and Leander shared a purpose and love for their country. Lord Leander, his mother having come from Hleoholt, towered a head taller than the people around him and bore the stature of a king. His build was of the North but his features were southern. Lord Dion, fully Rodorian, was born with a fire in his blood. He and Leander spent their youth slicing through the land in order to free their people from witches and strange monsters that attempted to arrest control from Rodorhíep. 

Despite King Cassius’s best efforts, Leander and Dion rode out several times to push back Byzmor and his men North of the Elshanya River. For now, it kept the warlord from Rodorhíep’s capital, Cidean. These deeds did not go unnoticed by the people who sang their praises and swore loyalty to the two men. 

These men were the men that Byzmor, who sketched hieroglyphs in the snow and dirt, feared. 

When he was done, Byzmor sat back on his haunches to scrutinise his work. No light emanated from within the drawings, no voice spoke to him from beyond. It was silent. From across the field, the trees creaked in a soft breeze and a bird’s wings flapped. 

Disappointed, Byzmor stood and tossed the book aside. Perhaps like those smoke-and-mirror magicians back home, the witches who directed him to the fortress in the Eastern hills of Rodorhíep were money hungry. Or maybe they were not witches at all but actually one of the Rodorians. They were difficult to differentiate.

As Byzmor walked away from his drawings, he felt a dizziness come over his body. The sensation grew: a turning of the world, as though he was suddenly suspended upside down. The moons moved from their place above to below. When he looked up, Byzmor saw the thick pines and snowy peaks of Rodorhíep. 

At once, the feeling concluded and he was slammed down into his own body, not more than inches above the ground. Byzmor collapsed to his hands and knees. All breath flew from his lungs.

When he lifted his head from the ground, Byzmor found himself face to face with a pair of bare feet. They hovered slightly above the snow and yet were blackened with what might have been soot or mud. His eyes moved further up to see the appearance of a person but surely could not have been. It possessed no hair, no brows, no lashes and yet was beautiful as if carved from stone. Wrapped around its lean figure was a shroud of robes that were now black but gave Byzmor the distinct impression that they were once white. Peering out from its perfect face was a pair of wide, yellow and lamping eyes. 

It smiled. 

“Good evening to you.”  Its voice was husky and soft, somewhere between feminine and masculine in a way that could not be pinpointed. The sound sent a shiver through Byzmor.

Byzmor rose without grace, still reeling from vertigo he experienced. Under the strange gaze of the creature, he felt a sense of unease. Byzmor shifted and fussed with his cloak like a hen.

“What are you?” he asked the creature.

It continued to smile with perfect teeth as it opened its arms wide, the strange cloak billowing out like a pair of wings. “An angel.” 

Byzmor blinked. This creature did not resemble an angel described by any religion he came across during his travels. He imagined them to look more… clean. 

“What is your name?” Byzmor asked. 

The creature lowered its arms, its smile fading but not totally disappearing. “I have many names, but you may call me Eligos.”  

Remaining wary, Byzmor greeted him—deciding that it must have been a ‘him’.  “Good evening, Eligos.”  

The creature smiled and tilted his head in response. Then, the breeze shifted. Lifting his face to the wind, Eligos sniffed the air. A frown marred his features. 

“Where is this place?” he demanded. 

“We are in Rodorhíep,” answered Byzmor, “In the mountains that border the North and South.” The frown deepened. Eligos considered Byzmor, cocking his head. “But you are not of Rodorhíep,” he stated. 

“I am not.”

“No,” agreed Eligos, “You do not have that black fox look.” From out of the cold mist, the so-called angel conjured the figure of an animal with a bushy tail. “These Rodorians are sneaky, do not let their beauty lead you astray,” he warned. “They are similar to the witches of Rynewood in beauty…” said Eligos conversationally, “Rodorians might not like to speak of it; the truth is hidden beneath lies.” His face contorted for a moment as he spat out the final word. Then, he continued, “But they come from the same woman. Queen Elishannah, daughter of Elshanya, of the forgotten East.”

 The fog-creature opened amber eyes, the same colour that many of the Rodorian people possessed, and turned toward Byzmor before scampering away. It took a moment for Byzmor to understand that it was a fox.

Pleased with his magic trick Eligos returned his attention to the man. He lowered himself and placed both feet delicately upon the icy ground.

“Do you understand what magic craft you have practised here tonight?” asked Eligos. 

Byzmor sniffed and rubbed his nose to regain feeling against the frost. “I understand you offer an opportunity for a trade,” replied Byzmor. He was beginning to regain some confidence the more he spoke to the creature before him. 

The full smile returned to Eligos’s lips. “What is it that you desire?” he asked. 

Perhaps he was foreign to this world, but Byzmor was not a stupid man. The warlord’s eyes narrowed. “I would like to ask you the same question, Eligos,” he said. 

Nonchalant, Eligos lifted his hand to his eyes to check his cuticles, saying, “My request will be metered depending on yours.” He lifted his yellow eyes toward Byzmor, his tone flat. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want to conquer Cidaen.”

Eligos looked out toward the city in question. Lights studded the spires and minarets at the top of sheer marble walls. After a moment of silence, Eligos spoke. “It can be done.” He paused before continuing. “Your men are not enough to take the city. There is not enough will in their hearts compared to that of Rodorhíep’s Dion and Leander. Those men that live there have been bred to fight. They have sent many of my kind back… home.” Then Eligos looked at Byzmor, excitement visible in his strangely coloured eyes.  “It would appear we find ourselves allies,” he said.

Byzmor was surprised. Was that all the convincing it took?

 From out of thin air, three women appeared. In a blink, they were not there and then they were. They stood silent, pale hands folded neatly before them. Black veils shielded their faces. The material rustled in the wind. Unfazed by their apparition, Eligos stepped neatly to one side and gestured toward the women. 

“These are the pythonesses of the Crow: Pythia, Erichtho, Rowenna. They come from deep within Rynewood and have served my family and me for generations.” 

Byzmor eyed the strange women. They bowed toward Eligos and Byzmor. The second one, her veil shielding her features, said, “Greetings, my lord.” 

Eligos clasped his hands in the manner of a businessman.

“Lord Byzmor, do you understand why these sisters do not like Rodorhíep?” 

“I am better equipped with understanding now we have spoken, though I am sure there is much to learn,” Byzmor answered.

The unease remained in his belly, fluttering about and chilling his bones far greater than the weather did. He wondered if it was too late to withdraw.

Eligos nodded. “You are a foreigner. How could you understand the legacy? The Rodorians are witch-hunters, my friend. They have built a reputation over the years for hunting down these women and taking their heads from their shoulders. It is a sport to them. They sing songs and ride through the country in search of women who only wish to practise magic and who seek knowledge. They wish to suppress their wish to, how should I say? Evolve.”

Byzmor was uninterested in the history of such things, but he knew that it would be rude to show as much. He leaned forward to show faux interest. 

“They can smell us,” whispered one of the veiled women, “Like dogs.” Her voice dripped with venom, glaring up at Cidaen. 

“Do you find it strange that such slender people might be able to give your kind such trouble?” asked Eligos to Byzmor. 

Byzmor nodded. “I had an easier time fighting the Cyld,” he said.

Eligos looked down and picked at his robes so that they floated around his ankles with an unfelt breeze. “That is because you have misunderstood who they are,” he sniffed. 

“I don’t suppose you will expound,” said Byzmor. He was growing annoyed with Eligos’s way of speaking. It was vague and patronising, like he knew something Byzmor did not. 

Eligos chuckled, the sound silvery and light. “Rodorians are small-minded, you see. Competitive because they do not want others to possess the power they have.”

Byzmor’s brow wrinkled. “So, they too practise sorcery?” he asked. 

“Something of the sort, though they would tell you that it was pure.” As he said this, something flashed in Eligos’s eyes, something ugly. “They believe that their purity and magic come from rituals and practises given in honour to their God. But that is something they will say to bar others from learning. It is science, alchemy they possess and they will not let others take part. They do not want others to be like them… and they hate those like myself who speak against it.” 

“Speak no more of them,” snapped a witch. Her voice was dry and feathery, like the crunch of dry leaves. 

Calm, Eligos conceded with the small bow of his head and said to Byzmor, “Allow these witches to join your ranks. Shake our hand and in six days the mountain kingdom will be yours.” 

Byzmor looked between the women and the strange man, fighting to keep his face expressionless. “What would you like in exchange?” he asked. 

Eligos revealed another of his strange and perfect smiles. “Access to the mountain roads. That is all.” 

Byzmor ran a hand down his thick, black beard. Images of the piles of gold and jewels he found within other already conquered peaks flashed through his mind. Hordes of dragon’s treasure, abandoned, were easily within reach. King Cassius already offered his daughter, Eudocia, in marriage. Perhaps the sorcery these Rodorian people seemed to possess could belong to his own children through Eudocia. Then, maybe he too might wield control over beings like Eligos and the weird sisters. 

Yet, how could it be so simple? Byzmor knew that there was more to what these strange beings wished. 

As he weighed the offer, Byzmor watched the expression of Eligos. There was a concealed desperation in what Eligos was. His smiles were perfect, but the yellow eyes were wide and haunting. Byzmor reminded himself that the ability of Eligos and his servants to use the mountain roads did not also forbid him from their use. Whatever treasures remained hidden throughout the mountain were still available. Where Byzmor came from, there were no ideas of ‘good’ and ‘evil’, only opportunity. This, clearly, was what he was hoping for. Visions of gold twinkled in his mind’s eye.

Byzmor offered a hand. “Deal.”

Eligos’s smile widened almost splitting his face with its unusual girth. When he spoke, the words seemed to growl from within his chest, dropping several octaves. 

“Deal.”

Read On

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