At several points along their march, as Nakor followed Martuch and Hirea, he saw what he took to be an aspect of the Dark God himself. He seemed to be shown as a shadowy presence, without features or costume. Given the vividness of the rest of the subjects in the mural, Nakor found this odd. The warriors were depicted with a stylized accuracy, heads larger than life, so as to show their ancient headgear, each with its unique style, since replaced by the badges worn on the chest-plate. The swords were different too, as were the battle flags and banners. The victims were shown piled like cordwood, after being sacrificed to His Darkness.
Other murals showed long lines of prisoners being marched towards a vast pit and cast down into it, more sacrifices for the Dark One. As they approached their destination, Nakor saw the themes of the murals turning to a more martial focus, the themes being repeated of powerful warriors in service to the Dark One, led by the TeKarana and his Karanas in triumph over a variety of alien species.
There was nothing merely triumphant in this, thought Nakor. He had visited many worlds since meeting Pug, and nearly every civilization on Midkemia, and had encountered other martial societies, even those bellicose by nature, but nowhere did he see suffering and pain celebrated as he did here. It was as Kaspar had related to them when discussing his vision at the Pavilion of the Gods, when first shown the Dasati by Kalkin, also known as Ban-ath, the God of Thieves. These people thought pain was amusing, and suffering funny. Never, from his perspective, had Nakor encountered a more twisted view of life and death.
No, he amended to himself as they reached their destination. There was a common theme. All life was suffering leading to death, and the only question was whether you were to suffer or to cause suffering. Then at the doorway that led into the Hall of Warriors, he saw one anomalous image. A Lesser, dressed as a healer, down in one corner, offering a cup of water to a suffering victim. It was odd, almost an afterthought, yet somehow significant, thought the little gambler.
As he hurried not to fall behind, one other detail caught his eye. A tiny glyph below the figure of the Lesser, almost unnoticeable if one was not examining the tableau carefully, and for a moment it made him almost stop in his tracks. It was a symbol that by any rational measure should not have existed in this universe, let alone be adorning this wall. Nakor pushed aside his astonishment, realizing that any break from the character of his adopted role could quickly end his life.
The hall they entered was large and functional, without a single decoration on any wall. Massive grey-black stones scintillated with the energies that had grown almost commonplace to Nakor, though he still had trouble finding the words to describe what he was seeing. A series of benches were arrayed in rows across the floor and a dozen young men sat waiting to be called. Around them were warriors, fathers, teachers, brothers-in-arms, all bidding their young warriors good fortune and urging them to bring honour to the houses and societies that had spawned them. There was nothing Nakor would call regret on any face, but rather uniform pride in one of their own being selected to serve the TeKarana.
Bek sat alone on a bench near the far wall, isolated enough that a short conversation would not be overheard. Nakor glanced around the room and noticed that a few of the young warriors recruited to the TeKarana’s service were attended by Lessers. ‘They can take a servant?’ asked Nakor.
Hirea said, ‘Yes, but you can’t be thinking—’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Nakor. ‘I must.’
Further debate was interrupted by the arrival of a Deathpriest, escorted by two palace guards. He said, ‘I recognize the badges of the Scourge and Sadharin.’ He looked down at Bek and said, ‘You wear no badge. Which society do you belong to?’
Before Bek could answer, Martuch said, ‘He is my retainer, by name Bek.’
‘Sadharin. Which house?’
Now they were rapidly getting into murky water, for it was never considered for a moment that any of the visiting humans would undergo this level of scrutiny. Martuch said, ‘Langorin.’
The Deathpriest’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Your name?’
‘Martuch,’ he replied, inclining his head in a deferential gesture that was so slight it bordered on insolence.
‘You are known, even here, Martuch of the Langorin. Is this your son?’
‘No,’ Martuch answered quickly. ‘He is from a Lesser family’
Nakor wondered if this might be a ploy by Martuch to get Bek dismissed.
The Priest looked confused, both curious and dubious. ‘How is this possible?’
Martuch looked at Bek in such a way he was clearly telling the young man to pay close attention to the story. Nakor knew that Bek at times seemed single-minded, even to the point of simplicity, but he was anything but stupid. He was murderous and bloodthirsty and he took pleasure in others’ suffering, but he was no fool. A quick glance from Bek told the diminutive gambler that he would follow Martuch’s lead. ‘I found him during a hunt. He had been chased down by one of my youngest retainers, the son of one of my most trusted old companions, and Bek had pulled him from the saddle, taken away his sword and killed him.’