Savage Birthright Page 3

  The fires turned to ash, the sky filled with fading stars, and sunlight beamed over the top of the cliff.

  “It’s Lady Prende’s Belt,” several sailors called out.

  Alerio tossed off his blanket, sat up, and looked in the direction they pointed.

  “It’s a rainbow,” Hektor observed.

  In the sky, a multicolored arch bridged over the sea.

  “Prende is the Goddess of Love and Beauty,” Epulon explained. “While her display is magnificent, walk aft and gaze on the cave.”

  Alerio and Hektor crossed to the steering platform, stopped, and gawked. In the rain the day before, the mouth of the cave had been gray and black. In the morning sun, the water in the sea cave radiated a bright blue.

  “With a smaller boat, you can row in,” the pirate Captain told them, “and get the full impression. It’s equally as glorious as the Lady’s display. But we haven’t time for exploration.”

  “So much beauty for such a harsh land,” Alerio remarked.

  “The flatland is rich, the rivers teem with fish, and the mountains are filled with game,” Epulon uttered while signaling the First Mate. “It’s a good place for serpents and the strong. For the weak, Ardiaei is not so pleasant.”

  In a few strokes, the Boria glided from the inlet and out onto the sea.

  ***

  Three miles to the north, the ship left the Adriatic Sea via a channel. At the end of the watercourse, they rowed into the lower chamber of Kotor Bay. After a long sweeping curve to the left, the vessel exited the lower chamber. Tracking northward they followed a narrow stretch of water to the upper chambers of the bay. Resembling two apples hanging from the same stem, the upper part of the bay had two nodes of water. Taking the one on the left, the raider ship rowed around a mountain and a short while later a town came into view.

  “Your capital?” Alerio questioned.

  Nestled on the shore of the upper reaches of Kotor Bay, the settlement occupied the only flatland along miles of rocky coastline.

  “No, this is Risan, a prominent town,” Epulon answered. He scanned the Illyrian ships in the water and the forest along the coast. “Although, it should be the residence of King Pleuratus. But he prefers Shkodër on Lake Shkodra.”

  “Better defenses there?” Alerio inquired.

  “You saw the twists and turns needed to navigate the bay,” Epulon replied. “Imagine attacking from the sea. If you made it this far, where would you land your army?”

  The ship nosed to a beach and crewmen jumped to the rocky shore and pushed the Boria out of the water. Less than a mile of curved beach was available for landing and beyond the shoreline, mountains rose above Risan.

  “I’d land the Legion right here,” Alerio described. His eyes shifted to a rushing river that cut the beach in two. “Or, if it was too well defended, I’d land them on the other side and build a bridge over the river.”

  “Your men would build a bridge while under attack?” Epulon questioned.

  “Of course, Legionaries are capable builders as well as talented fighters.”

  “Now I understand why the Cleric wanted you,” the pirate leader offered. He jumped to the beach before telling Alerio. “Leave your bags.”

  Alerio leaped then turned to look for Hektor. Bent over the crewman with the wrist wound, the youth wrapped a fresh bandage over the injury.

  “I told you, no rowing for at least eight days,” he scolded. “It’s not magic. Your body requires rest to heal properly.”

  Once done, Hektor pulled the strap of his medical kit over his head, walked to the rail, and jumped to the rocky beach.

  “Is this the capital?” he asked.

  “No, it’s their fortress,” Alerio stated while pivoting and scanning the high peaks above the town. “Trouble with your patient?”

  “Bone injuries are painful, and men think they can work through the pain,” Hektor complained. “What they miss is the bone and skin need to stitch together. If they put too much pressure on the wound, they’ll delay the healing.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him,” Epulon offered. “Now, follow me.”

  They took a set of steps off the beach. The houses of Risan were built of thigh sized stones and hefty beams of lumber. It made sense as they were the two most common building materials in the area. After a particular steep incline, they came upon a flat expanse.

  Rocks with flat tops and sloping sides dotted a yard of grass and sand. Based on the shapes and placement, they had been purposely placed in a pattern. A two-story stone building occupied the center of the yard. Leading to an upper floor, a rock staircase wrapped around the back of the building. Where the staircase reappeared on the other side, the final steps went to the roof.

  “From the top, you can see the lower chamber of Kotor Bay,” Epulon pointed out. “Enemy ships rowing in will be sighted before they reach the upper bay.”

  “Fortress Risan,” Alerio acknowledged.

  “Snakes,” Hektor warned. “Several of the rocks have serpents on them.”

  A man dressed in a robe with a hood pulled down low on his face strolled slowly from the building. He held out his hands as if walking through a wheat field caressing the stalks. But here, he motioned gently to the snakes stretched out on the flat rocks.

  “They are sunning themselves,” he whispered. “Do you not enjoy absorbing the warmth of the sun? Note the rocks are in concentric circles to draw the sun’s power. Can you not feel the energy of the sun here in our serpent garden?”

  Epulon bowed to the man and took a step back.

  “Monk, a good day to you,” he said. Then the pirate Captain advised while backing away from the garden. “I’ll meet you at the ship, Sisera.”

  “I thought you people revered snakes,” Alerio commented.

  “Honoring them is one side of the coin,” Epulon replied. “Respecting their territory is another.”

  “You’re afraid of snakes,” Alerio guessed.

  The brash pirate leader didn’t respond. Instead, he hurried down the steps and soon vanished from view.

  “What happened to being feared north and south and from coast to coast?” Alerio called after him.

  “Would you like to hold a living facsimile of the great God Boa?” the monk inquired. “It will put you closer to the Devine Snake.”

  “Look priest,” Alerio told him, “I’m here to speak with the Cleric of the Snake, not to join your cult.”

  “Then I shall select a gentle one for you.”

  “I didn’t agree to holding a snake,” Alerio protested.

  “Boa’s Temple is a place of harmony, undefended by steel or staff,” the monk reported. “To maintain the peace, everyone entering the temple holds a poisonous serpent. You see, if you make a sudden or aggressive move, the Divine Snake will strike you down through its intermediary.”

  Alerio glanced at the sleeping snakes, swallowed nervously, and questioned, “You did say a gentle one?”

  ***

  The eyes with the vertical slits didn’t look at Alerio. But the coils of the long muscular body on his neck and down his arms made him aware that the snake knew it was in contact.

  “Serpents don’t care if you are a friend or a foe,” the monk advised when he placed the snake across Alerio’s shoulders. “Your thoughts and intentions mean nothing to them. They recognize movement for hunting and self-preservation.”

  “In short, don’t startle the reptile,” Alerio offered.

  “It is the only rule you need in Boa’s Temple.”

  Alerio slowly climbed the stairs. They wrapped around to the back of the building and ended at a second-floor patio. Curtains at a doorway blew in the morning breeze.

  “Enter visitor,” a man’s voice called from inside.

  Using the back of his arm to push aside the material, Alerio passed through the curtain without disturbing his snake.

  Once inside, the door closed behind him. Alerio stood blinking and trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness.

/>   “Bright light hurts my eyes,” the voice informed him. “We will speak in shadows and the half-light of candles.”

  Across the room, a highbacked chair with arms that came up and over as if fangs of a snake were only partially lit by candles. The light didn’t reach the seat or the occupant.

  “Are you the Cleric of the Snake?’ Alerio inquired.

  “I am. And who are you?”

  “Alerio Sisera,” he answered.

  The sharp inhalation by the man sounded like the hiss of a snake.

  “Say ‘making sport’,” the Cleric instructed. “Then say, ‘and for throwing the babies’ bodies in with the women and children’.”

  A shiver ran down Alerio’s spine. Those words didn’t sound familiar but the orders to repeat the phrases had an ominous tone.

  “Is this a test?” Alerio asked.

  Without thinking, he raised an arm and braced for an attack. His snake hissed and the head lifted from the back of his hand.

  “Temper, temper,” the Cleric warned. “My babies are sensitive to threats.”

  “Why am I repeating nonsense?” Alerio questioned. “Is this a ritual?”

  “A ritual? Oh, bless me no,” the Cleric chuckled. Except there was no humor in the laughter. It came out dry and brittle as burnt leather. “It’s a test of identity, if you must know.”

  “Making sport. And for throwing the babies’ bodies in with the women and children,” Alerio repeated the phrases. Then his knees grew weak, and memories flashed in his mind.

  Thirteen years ago, Navarch Martinus Cetea fought Alerio when the Lance Corporal of heavy infantry intruded into the Illyrian commander’s tent. Outside, Legion archers and a madman dressed in a snake’s head caused a riot, while inside, Alerio got revenge for a farming community terrorized by the Admiral. But rather than killing Martinus, Alerio crippled the man at his ankles, cut the tendons in his wrists, and blinded him by drawing a blade across the Navarch’s eyes.

  The requested phrases were the last things Alerio said before the acts of carnage. Although unsatisfactory for avenging the farmers, the actions allowed Cetea to live. And that left the Illyrian boats crews with a wounded Admiral and a problem. Their leader was alive but incapacitated.

  No Illyrian Captain could claim the leadership position while Martinus Cetea lived. The siege of the coastal town ended when the ships rowed for home to select a new Navarch.

  “I remember now,” Alerio spit out. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Harsh words for a man locked in my chamber, and holding one of my pets,” Martinus Cetea pointed out.

  “Confident words for a blind cripple,” Alerio shot back. “Are we going to fight again? This time, I will kill you.”

  “Just as I desire to end your life, Lance Corporal Alerio Sisera,” Cleric Cetea replied.

  There was the old rank, as the scroll had used it. Other than the poisonous snakes in his hands, the temple wasn’t guarded. And Alerio had a gladius and a dagger on his hips. Something beyond the obvious was happening.

  “We aren’t going to fight, are we?” Alerio suggested. “If you only wanted revenge, Captain Epulon would have delivered me squirming and thrashing in a fishing net. But he didn’t.”

  “As much as I would relish seeing... Wait, I can’t see anything except shadows in a blue fog,” Martinus stated. Then he chuckled, making the ugly sound again. “I want you dead from the depths of my soul.”

  The two men were silent. Only the hint of slithering serpents on the floor reached their ears. But in the quiet, Alerio’s snake rested its head on the back of his hand. Somehow, the tension in the room had drifted away.

  “But I love my tribe more than I love the idea of revenge,” Cleric Martinus Cetea admitted. “I need your help, Lance Corporal Sisera. Or rather, the Ardiaean Kingdom needs your help.”

  His hands rose into the candlelight. Snakeskin gloves with the fingertips cut away covered from the back of his hands to his elbows. Using the little finger and the finger next to it, he gripped the high arms of the chair, and pulled. The Cleric of the Snake stood, allowing the light to hit his features.

  Snake like, he moved his face from side to side as if sampling the air. Adding to the resemblance of a reptile, courtesy of Alerio’s blade from more than a decade before, his eyeballs displayed horizontal slits.

  “Why would I help you?” Alerio challenged.

  “I can stand and, although slowly, I can hobble around. Only two fingers on each hand works. But I’ve learned to use what I have,” Cetea listed. “Strong light hurts my eyes, but in muted light, I see shapes in vibrant blue. Do I miss the color of a woman’s hair in the sunlight and the glint of moonlight in her eyes at night? Of course. I am a man. But I’ve aged and taken on responsibilities and gained wisdom.”

  “What wisdom had you bring an enemy into your midst? Could it be suicide by Legionary?” Alerio asked. “If so, I’ll gladly fulfill your wish, butcher of farm children. My personal Goddess is Nenia. I’ll call her to collect your rotten soul if you like.”

  “In my fevered dreams, after we fought, I woke in fear that the swift, agile, and angry Lance Corporal had come for me,” Cetea stated. “I had as much as given up on living. But Queen Jeta brought a brother of the snake to me each day. They bathed me and wrapped my wounds in fresh bandages. Then they sat and talked of ancestors, the potency of life, and the need for intelligent guidance to balance strength and might.”

  “Am I supposed to forgive you, now that you’ve acquired the ability to feel?” Alerio questioned. “The fire in my belly remains unquenched.”

  “Queen Jetta warned me that this was a bad idea,” the Cleric reported. “But I had to try. So here goes. Our leaders are selected by challenges. No birthright title is passed down from father to son. To ascend to an office, requires the candidate to fight and gather the support of tribal Chieftains.”

  “You want me to train someone to become King of your people?” Alerio guessed.

  “If only it was that straight forward.”

  “How complicated can it be?” Alerio stated. “What do I get in return?”

  “A sack of silver for you. And for your Senator Maximus, his transports will have two years of pardon from our pirate ships,” Cleric Cetea responded. “Plus, I grant you, your life. Unless you’re killed during the mission. Then, I will take immense joy in your demise.”

  “And where do I find your hero?” Alerio inquired. “Here or in Shkodër?”

  “Your quest starts at Lezhë Castle,” Martinus Cetea corrected him. “It’s home to the Taulantii tribe, Queen Jeta’s people. Through them, you’ll make introductions to King Pleuratus and his court at the Capital.”

  “Who is this tender lad I’m going to instruct in the use of weapons?”

  “Prince Agron. He’s nineteen years old and a brute by training,” the Cleric of the Snake replied. “We need him to learn to win with grace.”

  “Like crippling, and blinding, but not killing?” Alerio mocked.

  Martinus Cetea leaned back, then dropped. The fang like arms of the chair remained in the candlelight. But the Cleric himself was lost in the darkness.

  “If that’s what it takes to win without creating a blood feud. Then yes, crippling and blinding are acceptable.”

  Act 2

  Chapter 4 - Queen Jeta’s Brother

  The fort at Lezhë loomed over the river Drin. Even from the bay more than two miles away, Alerio could see the power of the Taulantii Tribe. And it wasn’t from the stone walls on top of the steep hill. While the fort projected might, the real power came from the miles of cultivated land under the watchful eye of the fortification.

  In addition to the farms, a hoard of fishing boats worked the bay, and a fleet of raider ships rested on the beach. The economic wealth allowed for a large population as displayed by multiple villages along the shoreline. It all pointed to a good supply of well-fed men to staff an army and a navy.

  “It’s no wonder the Ardiaeins want a strong King
,” Alerio submitted. “The Taulantii are so prosperous, they have to be a threat.”

  “Years ago, the Taulantii controlled land for hundreds of miles around,” Epulon responded. “But the Ardiaein Tribe and others beat them back. If not for the fort, they would have been annihilated. Now, they hold to their territory and thrive.”

  “If the Taulantii are no threat,” Alerio inquired, “why am I here and not at Shkodër?”

  “The Ardiaein King was a fishing fleet Chieftain before challenging for the crown. With help from his wife, Jeta, he maneuvered ahead of wealthier men and fought for the title. When he became king, he took the name Pleuratus the Second,” Epulon answered. “Ninety years ago, Pleuratus the First fought King Philip of Macedonia. The storytellers relate that Pleuratus lost land but he and his Taulantii warriors managed to wound the Macedonian King and kill many of his elite soldiers. To this day, he is a hero to the tribe. For an Ardiaein King to take the name Pleuratus and have a Taulantii wife, means the border is secure.”

  “And the border will continue to be safe as long as the kingship remains with a Pleuratus,” Alerio summed up. “That still doesn’t explain why I’m here and not at the Ardiaein capital.”

  “Because you need a reason to be in Shkodër.”

  “I’m going there to train Prince Agron,” Alerio submitted. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “Unfortunately, it isn’t. There are factions, both traditional and rebellious, who want the transition to be left to chance,” the pirate Captain informed him. “Which brings us to your problem. Neither faction wants you since Prince Agron already has a trainer. But Queen Jeta needs her son to be the next King and will not leave it to fate.”

  Alerio glanced up and down the beach as the Boria rowed closer to the shoreline.

  “I’d expect a welcoming committee by their Navy,” Alerio suggested. “So far, no one seems alarmed with the appearance of an Ardiaein warship. Or, is bothered by it rowing towards their coast.”

  “Why would they?” Epulon proposed. “Half my crew are Taulantii. We are, after all, a Queen Jeta ship.”