Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

Chapter 7

"Toad."

"Lizard."

"Toad, I say!"

"Look at its tail!"

"So what. It's a toad with a tail."

"It's a lizard. A winged horned six-footed lizard covered in scales."

"It's a toad. Tell him, doll-face!"

"It's the Jinnjarati swamp demon. Causes fever, scabies and insanity," responded Ithildin pedantically. He had already read the guide-book. "From Kintaro's side, it does look like a toad..." Kintaro grinned triumphantly. "...from Alva's side, it looks like a lizard... and from where I am standing, it's more of a bat, really."

No other country offered such motley variety of small gods, demons and spirits as did Jinnjarat. Their depictions, seen on every square and street corner, in every temple and every other place of public gathering, were exceedingly ugly and fantastic. But it was believed that the sculptors were portraying what they had seen with their own eyes. Although, since the Jinnjarati chewed peyote, containing mild hallucinogens, the belief would have been reasonable enough.

The fondness for the peyote could also account for the locals' complete lack of curiosity. Silly to expect the people capable of seeing a swamp demon in broad daylight, that they would pay any attention to three foreigners. Even if the foreigners were a red-haired green-eyed Northerner, a pale elf with silver hair, and a tall dark barbarian with a huge sword slung on his back.

It has been two days since they had arrived in Kimdiss, the capital of Jinnjarat. This was the place to find the best coffee on the continent − there were plantations all around the town − and the best steel which only the local smiths knew how to make. Jinnjarat was a mysterious and distant land, that foreigners rarely visited and rarer still chose as a place to live. A foreigner would stand out among the short ebony-skinned Jinnjarati in their white sarongs like a pine-tree among the brambles. So our three were sticking out in Kimdiss, but the same went for anyone coming after them, and that evened out the chances.

On the other hand, here, the Enqins were unlikely to get any of the locals to help. The peaceful bucolic Jinnjarati took no interest in wars or politics. They didn't even have an army or a government, at least not in the usual sense of the word.

Wherever people lived in Jinnjarat, a so-called oracle ruled them. It was believed that the One God spoke through these oracles. The oracles were most likely telepathic and could communicate with one another. Any news of importance traveled immediately across the entire country, reaching even the tiniest hamlets lost in the jungle. The oracles were united in any important decision as well. The people of Jinnjarat would rise against any attackers as one − that was a fact. The power of the oracles was rooted in more than faith and tradition. They brought rains and stopped them, ruled on disputes, advised, healed, judged and punished criminals. But, really, not that much was known about these oracles. Some thought their 'special powers' were a combination of old wives' tales and cunning trickery.

Jinnjarat still was a mysterious realm, unexplored by foreigners. The first magic portal was set up in the country less than a hundred years ago. Previously, you could only get here either by sea, or by crossing the mountain range that marked the Arislan border. Both routes were lengthy and dangerous.

Kimdiss, closest to the portal, became the unofficial capital (there was no official one, obviously). Kimdiss was big on trade and manufacturing. It was here that you found the embassies, foreign settlements, representatives of the larger guilds (such as the Mages Guild or the Traders Guild), the most famous armourers and coffee exporters. It also housed temples of strange otherworldly beauty that usually stood completely empty. Apparently, their only purpose was to attract those who appreciated exotic architecture. None of our three travelers was particularly interested in exotic architecture, but they had gotten thoroughly bored at home.

The leg wound Kintaro got in Iskenderun opened up when they reached Kimdiss. Either the court mage messed up the healing, or the chief had made the injury worse during the horseback ride from the portal to Kimdiss. It could have been the heat and humidity as well.

For nearly a week, Alva would not let the barbarian leave the bed. And if the only way he could do it was by remaining in bed himself, so be it. Thanks to this treatment (or in spite of it), the wound finally healed, and they could get out into the town. The three of them could now meander in the streets, taking in the houses and statues, sampling the local food and drink, and making their plans.

Ithildin liked it on the outskirts of Kimdiss − it was green, quiet and deserted. The temples and other buildings were cunningly fitted to the surrounding landscape. The houses were reed shacks with an open verandah, roof and some walls, not unlike the elven living quarters. Except these houses were built on support beams, to protect from floods, damp and the snakes. And the sounds here were different; in Greyna Thialle, the Great Forest, one could rarely hear the sleepy pattering of rain on the reed roof. And in the forest there were no huge leaves, like slashed up fans, peeking in from the outside.

Kintaro, he loved the Kimdiss armories. He was right at home among the swords, scimitars, long knives with blades of smoky steel with intricate patterns resembling running water. A blade like that could cut through an ordinary sword like a piece of wood.

It was said that making a Kimdiss blade was like bearing a child: three months for smelting the steel, another three months for forging the blade and the same amount of time for tempering it. They also said that a Kimdiss blade talked to its master and advised him. It acted of its own will in battle, and could be neither lost nor stolen. They said rather a lot about the Kimdiss blades.

It was absolutely true that they cost a fortune and were very rare. That was because the Jinnjarati weapon makers never sold them to traders. If you were after a Kimdiss blade, you had to come to Jinnjarat, and no other way about it. You had to go through every shop, hold every blade in your hands, and the right one was going to choose you. Few could ever part with this kind of object, even if they were really strapped for cash. A blade simply bought off the previous owner did not bring any special luck with it. But you could pick out a weapon for someone who was very dear to you and whose combat habits you knew well.

Alva thrilled at the idea of getting a true Kimdiss weapon. He had already bought a matching pair of swords and sent them off to his colonel blondie up in Selkhir. Ithildin had looked towards the scimitars, that resembled the elvish curved swords, but he was a true bowman and did not really want to trade his arrows for a blade.

Kintaro, though, was completely happy with his own sword. It was a true atarink of the steppes: a straight and heavy sword made from especially durable steel. It was passed down from swordsman to swordsman, and only the most deserving ones could own it. Nobody knew who had been making the atarinks and where the Essanti got them. The old warriors told lots of tales about them.

Although, Kintaro always loved weaponry and would not have said no to another sword. Except he had not come across anything that suited him. Neither did Alva, who had been looking for something out of the ordinary and passed through every shop and fondled every hilt.

Never before did Alva care for weapons that much. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the deadly battle that still smoldered. Kintaro could feel it too. The tension left him only a full week after the Zeinab Street massacre.

The Essanti wanted to go over the events of that night again and again. How many Enqins there had been, how they had attacked, how they had been armed. Ithildin answered patiently and supplied even the most trifling details. Alva was only irritated by these questions. He was not afraid of facing danger, but had no desire to revisit the memories. It had been enough that he had spent the next few nights screaming and thrashing in his sleep, when only Kintaro's embrace was able to calm him.

Gripped by guilt, the chief never let Alva out of his sight, and would escort him even to the grocer's, even though it was clear that the real danger was still far off, if it were ever coming. But whenever he looked at Alva's red curls, Kintaro could not help remembering the burning house and the blood flowing on the pavement. It took him many days to stop.