The Withered Land, THE EMPIRE FALLS: HELL'S AVATAR

HELL'S AVATAR -- PART EIGHT

"The Regional Ambassadorial Envoy from Koombari City are ready to attend the Negotiations," a gaunt, taciturn man in the amber robes of a Territorial Magisterial Advocate announced to a trio of heavily-muscled older men. The bearded, long-haired men were standing together next to an arched window looking out on the Priory's central courtyard. A pair of military guardsmen in dull olive-green tactical armor bracketed the trio, providing protective security that the fierce and barbarous group of sullen-eyed, saturnine men did not appear to need.

"Agents of the Warhound, you mean. 'Ambassadorial Envoy'. Phahfg! Either way, it's about time," one of the men said in a gravel-rough voice. "They've kept us waiting for more than half a sunsweep."

"What do you expect from scholarly diplomats from a spaceport city?", another man, shorter and thicker than the first man who spoke, remarked past a snarl. "They actually imagine themselves to be important."

"Don't be act the dullard. They already believe they're dealing with paranoid, backwards-thinking medieval fanatics. We do not need to re-inforce that impression. And as ambassadors from the spaceport metropolis, they are important," the third man, taller and more lean than his two comrades, said in a voice that held the slightest of reptilian hisses behind the words. "You can best believe they have diligently researched our own backgrounds and credentials and committed the facts therein to memory before they left Koombari City to travel here. We'll need to keep our wits about us and not let our cultural prejudices blind us to that which these men may be capable --- or to what it is they may be able to offer us."

"They're liars and merchants without any real concepts of history or of honor," the first speaker, a man with a hooked nose over his bushy white mustache, groused belligerently. "Their so-called authority over the affairs of the region is a joke. They don't belong anywhere near the Brotherhood of the Duskhelm."

"They have the sharper swords and the bigger guns," the tall man said. "On occasions such as this, we need to remember that."

"So you say, brother," the shorter, broader member of the trio said shrugging, "so you say."

Qeskan Wa'entrud, the thoughtful tall man, smiled crookedly at Rentro Bacsille's deadpan dourness while the third man, Gaddezos Hu'riem, harrumphed irritably.

Qeskan, Rentro and Gaddezos were the Court-Lords and Storm-Captains of the Duskhelm Priory's Army of the Ashen Brood. Qeskan Wa'entrud was the foremost of the leaders, bearing the title of Primehunde of the First-Named, while Rentro Bacsille and Gaddezos Hu'riem were Brethren-Equals Among The First-Named. Though the men were not in any way related by blood genetics, they were truly family, battle-bred brothers who'd served and fought in the regional militia under conscription in the Emperium for nearly forty orbital sun-cycles, called 'heliars'. Rentro and Gaddezos were originally descended from the aggressive and regimented Qa'Sarkoon peoples of Tehsiwahur while Qeskan was a descendant of the wealthy and aristocratic Cid'Ammar bloodlines. Generally in Teshiwahurian culture, the tribal groups did not willingly, nor easily, mix, but within the subculture of the Ashen Brood, all previous tribal heritages and regional allegiances were foresworn as members became crusader-soldiers of the ancient clan that had protected the city of Shi'draith-Hakaba.

The robed Territorial Magisterial Advocate reluctantly held his piece until the men had finished their exchange and then said, "There is much to be done to rebuild and restructure what remains of the outland territories of the Emperium since the arrival of The Wound in our skies. The inarguable fact is that all our past differences, political or spiritual or racial or species-driven, matter as little against the knowledge that this entire sector of space has begun to decompose and devolve due to the unstoppable influence of cosmic forces we scarce understand and cannot hope to stop. No one said we need to all become friends. However, you DO represent the leading political and military authority of the nomadic outpost peoples who live at the fringe of The Wastes. If you do not take the responsibility, then who will? I imagine the diplomats from Koomari City bear little love for either you or your territory, but at least they acknowledge we DO have to work together if any of us want to survive this descent into decay and slow death. So, gentleman, if I may, I would urge you to control your tempers and open your minds and see what it is you can do to help the Ambassadorial Envoy to regain control over this mutated and corrupted, dying part of the planet. And meeting with Ambassador Jhonwin Czuek is a good first step..."

Qeskan Wa'entrud regarded the Magisterial Advocate anew, with a raised eyebrow and an appreciation for the man's sense of priorities.

"Well said," Qeskan allowed. A sidelong look at his comrades, however, revealed to Qeskan that Rentro and Gaddezos had reacted more predictably to the man's words. Their fists were clasped firmly around the pommels of their razor sharp daggers. They didn't take sharp criticism from officious non-Brood, non-warriors well.

"Let us venture into chambers, brothers. It would seem we have some grim and difficult work ahead of us," Qeskan said. He summarily began a stroll down the tapestry-lined, arched stone corridor towards the conference chamber.

As Gaddezos Hu'riem stiffly strode past the Magistrate, obviously struggling to keep himself in check, he stopped only a hearts beat long enough to say to the robed man, "Ever speak that way to me again and I'll gut you and feed you your own entrails."

The Magistrate only sighed in response and followed the trio down the corridor. It wasn't the first time he'd been threatened and, as being threatened went, this one was more palatable than those he'd experienced from Ambassador Czuek.

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