The Ziggurat of Shodo Khal - The Pearldiver's Adventures #3
Being one of the Pearldiver's Adventures; a tale of Avarice, Temptation, Trickery, and Vice.
Welcome, dear readers, to the third of The Pearldiver’s Adventures, my ongoing pulp adventure series detailing the adventures of Captain Molo Pearldiver. This story sees Molo travel to a region previously unseen in my other stories across Palanor. Far removed from places like Riverre, which is featured in my developing novel The Castle on the Hill; or the harsh northern climes of Stenise, as featured in my stories of Gaiur the Wolfmother; the southern jungles of Telar are a dark, mysterious, and thoroughly dangerous place.
If you’d like to read the rest of The Pearldiver’s Adventures, you may find them in the index:
The Pearldiver's Adventures, Index
When the Riverro-Bertosian Alliance tasked its joint naval force with hunting down any and all pirates and picaroons sailing upon the Sea of Swords, it came with the rather unfortunate side effect of freezing much in the way independent trade. This saw a deficit of available work for the crews of numerous smaller trade outfits. While previously permitted to operate freely within Alliance waters and ports, this newly declared war on piracy also saw fresh sanctions placed on “third party traders,” as they’d been termed in a series of official Bertosian proclamations recently posted across all of their major and minor ports. With these new sanctions in place, the days of free exchange within Alliance waters were largely finished. Any men caught trading without legal license from either Riverre or Bertosia would find their ships subject to seizure, while they and their crews were arrested under suspicion of piracy.
Many captains, old and young, recognized this move for what it was - an attempt by the Alliance to consolidate regional trading power entirely within its own sphere of influence. Among the traders, the more wealthy crews were loathe to surrender long established business ties, so they tended to swallow the bitter pill of the new tariffs and licensing costs. Smaller trade crews, less able to afford this increase in costs, had to weigh their options. Some worked out deals with larger outfits, offering fast ships and skilled sailors, to say nothing of their own business connections, to help offset the additional expenses. Others went directly to the Alliance itself, joining up with major trading outfits such as the Northerly Company, which made frequent journeys to and from Stenisian trade hubs like Halvfjord, Høyfjord, and Bjørkeland.
Then there were those intrepid few who chose a riskier venture. These were the men and women who were wholly unwilling to surrender the freedom of their prior ways of living to the Alliance’s tight fitting yoke. And so they made their way South, to the Thousand Isles of Sanja-vai and the steaming jungles of continental Telar.
Molo Pearldiver, captain of the sturdy Bertosian brigantine The Second Lady, counted himself among these daring folk. Yet where many he knew embarked on this endeavor with a sense of excitement, and more with a sense of trepidation, Molo’s southward journey felt to him as a homecoming. And why shouldn’t? He hailed from the Isles of Sanja-vai, and while they lay further to the south and west than where he currently made port in Telar, the region still held an air of nostalgic familiarity.
Yet Telar was not Sanja-vai. Its jungles were thicker, wetter, and darker than those of the Isles. They teemed with more life, full of buzzing and crawling insects, the various calls of whooping monkeys and singing birds, and the lurking dangers of massive jungle cats or river crocodiles; to say nothing of its utterly colossal variety of barbed, spined, hooked, and worst of all, poisonous plant life. Fortunately Molo and his crew had yet to deal with any of these fearsome dangers, but the charismatic young Captain knew that wouldn’t last for long.
Seventeen days ago The Second Lady made port in Marrash. After filling her hulls in Dagger Bay with a variety of goods popular among the Telari; namely jewelry, fine textiles, and firearms; Molo quickly set to trading off these luxuries to fund his crew’s stay. With all they had the young Captain and his crew of twenty one, which included his First Mate, one Francis Arnold Wuthers, should have been able to stay comfortably in Marrash for at least the next six weeks.
They burnt through those funds in less than half that time, much to the dismay of Molo and Wuthers both. Part of that had been Molo’s own doing. In terms of its size, Marrash straddled the line between city and town, not quite large or small enough to comfortably be called either. It was smaller than Dagger Bay, which was dense enough to be considered a city but remained small in size in order to maintain the secrecy and security of its location. Even so, the size of Marrash in no way limited its ability to siphon money from rowdy sailors. Brothels, saloons, and gambling halls weren’t just common, they were the port’s primary means of business, and Molo’s bottomless gullet for grog played right into the town’s hands.
Questions were naturally raised by this surprising situation, mostly by Wuthers who, as the oldest member of the crew, tended to be more level headed than the rest. Through his interrogations, he discovered that all among the crew were guilty of overspending, with most of the money being lost in the gambling halls. Molo himself hadn’t given in to that particular vice, but he had parted with about three days worth of coin on expensive local rums. Hardly the greatest contributor of the lot, but not something which his steadfast First Mate was willing to overlook.
As it turned out, the lion’s share of the lost money was down to a pair of new crewmen who Molo had recruited shortly before his journey south. Younger even than their captain, who himself was only in his mid-twenties, the mismatched pair initially reminded Molo in some ways of Wuthers and himself. One of them was a tall, burly Stenisian with flowing blonde locks and the sort of stern but handsome face one would expect to read of in a collection of sultry romances starring a sensitive reaver who is also a fierce love maker. Named Sigurdr, the lad even had a voice to match his look, a deep baritone that he utilized with a surprisingly soft spoken elegance.
The other was of a more chilling breed, a russet skinned youngster who had a distinct redness to his overall complexion. Molo paid little mind to this at first. His crew was comprised of men from all over. So long as his men pulled their weight, loyally seeing to the work expected of them, he had no qualms with wherever they may hail from. Yet this situation brought Molo pause, for when he noticed the young man’s clipped ears and the spiral scar at the back of his neck, he knew him not just to be a former slave of Khavos, but the half-blooded offspring of that violently imperious people. It was with great relief that he realized the half-blood, who’s name was Dibelios, hadn’t inherited the oft rumored bloodthirst of his ancestors.
Molo had thought to hire them back in Dagger Bay, after they impressed him with a show of martial prowess in the always raucous Grinning Gar. Speaking with the young men, he learned they’d been traveling companions for roughly the last two years and had been traveling in search of glory and adventure. When Molo told them of his plan to sail south to the jungles of Telar, their faces alighted with possibility. For them the journey promised the chance for adventure in the distant South. For Molo, it meant hiring a pair of strong hands to help fend off the very real threat of Telari pirates. That both young men also knew their way around a ship was a welcome bonus.
Now Molo was paying the price for that decision. Having called the young men into his quarters to speak with them privately, Wuthers being the only other man present, he slowly paced back and forth across his room, the thick soles of his leather boots thudding against the wooden floor with every step. The difference in appearance between these two parties was stark. Wuthers was tall and gangly and, nearing forty, he showed his life of hard work in his rough skin. Molo, on the other hand, was short, stout, and round in his features. He sported a bit of a pot belly, though he’d trimmed it in recent months, and he had a bristly mustache and goatee that, along with his soft facial features, gave him what many folks like to call an otter’s mien.
By contrast, both young men standing across from them were far more impressive. Sigurdr’s imposing frame was knotted with muscle and he often walked around bare chested to help endure the jungle heat, something which he bragged the local girls at the brothel thoroughly enjoyed. Dibelios, too, wasn’t one to scoff at. While not as tall or thickly muscled as Sigurdr, he was lithe, lean, and prone to wearing his shirt partly open. Again, this didn’t escape the notice of the local women, whom Molo had personally seen fawn over the exotic youth.
Yet for as impressive and, in many ways, intimidating as they looked, neither of the young men appeared happy to be in this situation.
“A tenday’s funds between the two of you,” Molo sighed. “I honestly don’t understand how it’s possible that you both managed to spend that much on whores alone.”
“It wasn’t just whores,” Sigurdr grumbled, a distinct note of insulted pride in his tone. “We wouldn’t be so foolish to frit away so much on whores alone, not when there’s also drinking and gambling to be done.”
Molo grimaced, pressing his fingers into his eyes. The answer was so audacious that he struggled to find the words to speak, so Wuthers spoke up for him.
“Not the point, lad,” Wuthers said, his gravelly voice sounding downright coarse next to the songlike quality of Sigurdr’s.
“Yes, exactly!” Molo barked. “You spent a tenday’s worth of our entire stockpile, coin which was meant not only to pay your fellow crew, but help us negotiate for goods to trade when we make for the Isles!”
Sigurdr defiantly crossed his arms and scowled at Molo. “When you hired us on for this venture you did so on the promise of derring-do and jungle excursions. We’ve yet to encounter either. As I see it, we’re simply taking what we’re owed before parting ways.”
Molo was not an easy man to anger by any means. Charisma and patience had been key skills which allowed him to foster a strong sense of loyalty among his men. Being quick tempered worked against that and brought disquiet into the crew. On those rare occasions where he was made angry, he usually made an effort to avoid expressing it overtly.
Not this time. This time he felt the heat rise in his face and through clenched teeth he hissed, “Any other captain would have you keelhauled on the spot for thievery of this scale.”
To which, Sigurdr merely scoffed and said, “Pah, I’d fell them dead before they so much as laid a hand on me.”
Molo’s already thin patience was on the verge of breaking. It was in that moment that Dibelios finally spoke up, his tone more measured than his Stenisian compatriot. “It was not only vice and indulgence we sought in the town, my Captain,” he said, quite obviously trying butter up still seething Molo. “There was also information to be had, rumors of old ruins deep in the jungle hiding troves of gold and jewels.”
Once more Molo grimaced, and his fingers found his eyes. These men were young, a mere two or three years out of adolescence. Youth of that sort was often frustratingly ignorant.
“Dibelios,” he began, leaning against his desk which was covered in map scrolls, ledgers, and various other sheafs of parchment, “there are always rumors of hidden treasures in the wilder parts of the world. No matter where you go someone is always ready to sell the secrets of things which don’t exist.”
Something heavy and metal thumped onto the floor, its impact dampened by the rug which it landed upon. Molo raised his eyebrows when he beheld it; a silver armlet fashioned in the shape of a scorpion, its legs bent so that they would grasp the wearer’s arm.
“He said you might not believe us, so he gave us this as proof,” Dibelios said as Molo bent over to pick the trinket up. It was unquestionably Telari in its make, but looks alone didn’t convince Molo of its realness.
Holding it did. The coolness, the weight, the texture, and the shape all matched similar treasures he’d seen peddled across the Thousand Isles as a boy.
“Who gave you this?” Molo asked.
Dibelios smirked arrogantly, far too proud of this supposed lucky find. “He’s a seer who calls himself Shodo Khal,” the half-blood said.
“Aye, that’s the name,” Sigurdr chimed in. “He also said he wants to meet with us tonight.”
Even with the silver trinket in his hands, Molo wasn’t convinced they weren’t dealing with some charlatan. As far as he was concerned both youths had been taken for fools, baited with the promises of treasure either so they could be fleeced for their coin or subjected to a far crueler fate, for more than the obvious dangers lurked within the jungle. All sorts of foul things could be found there, and the foulest among them were of the Telari themselves. Cannibalism and ritual sacrifice were horrifyingly common practice in the continental jungle, and Molo was firm in his belief that these adventure hungry boys were about to bite off more than they could chew.
Nevertheless, for as much as the idea turned his stomach, he deemed it worthwhile to meet this so-called seer. More than likely his instincts about the man would turn out correct. If he played his hand well then he might be able to earn back some of the coin the boys wasted. There may even be more treasures like the armlet to help him offset his losses. Whatever the result, he was confident he’d be able to make it work to his favor.
Sigurdr and Dibelios led him to a shack on the far edge of Marrash. Built right up against the tree line, Molo expected a dilapidated and rickety structure that looked ready to topple under the pressure of a strong breath. Instead he found the place was well maintained, with its wooden body coated all over in waterproofing resin and its roof comprised of carefully layered broadleaves and woven fronds bound tightly together with lengths of vine. Colorful fabrics hung in the entryway as a makeshift door. Backlit by the light of either a fire or multiple lanterns, it was dyed in bands of dark blue, purple, yellow, and green.
“Ah, the young ones return once more, and with their captain alongside,” came the fey voice within. “Linger not outside my door, for it is a rudeness and mine are words best spoken face to face.”
Uncomfortable disquiet quickly settled deep in Molo’s gut, a feeling that he likened to a soiled washbasin clogged with sloshing filth. Over the years, the young Captain had frequently encountered men who claimed to be mystics of one form or another. Self proclaimed sorcerers, devious diviners, and half-witted hypnotists were the most common among these. In nearly every single case these turned out to be nothing more than cheats and confidence men. Yet as time went by and his sailing upon the seas further broadened his horizons, he’d had the exceedingly rare opportunity to witness that which most men never would: the terrifying power of genuine magic.
What he felt outside the entrance to that small shack couldn’t match the immensity of what he witnessed on the night he lost his first ship, The Lady Florenz, on the Sea of Swords. All the same, that did little to settle his nerves. A pressure lingered on the air as the stranger within the shack spoke. It made his skin tingle with needle pricks and his head feel as if fingers were trying to grasp him from inside his skull. There was no mistaking it. Whether or not his claims of secret treasures were true, the man inside that jungle shack was a real mystic, and that brought Molo pause.
The same could not be said of the impetuous youngsters who accompanied him. Be it from ignorance, foolhardiness, or the likely mix of the two, Sigurdr made to enter without hesitation, while Dibelios only paused to confirm that his new Captain was following behind. Keeping a tight hold on the silver scorpion armlet, Molo fully steeled himself and stepped through the threshold.
The room sweltered, the result of a modest fire which crackled in the middle of the small shack. Much like the outside, the interior was well maintained. Its walls were covered in the same resin, as were its spartan furnishings. In one corner sat a cot. In another, a low table with a block stool carved from a stump. Utensils of stone and wood lay scattered atop the table; bowls, spoons, and stone knives, all crude and fashioned by hand. There was even a carving board, recently bloodied by some sort of jungle fowl. Molo could see the decapitated head of the colorful bird facing away from him on the table. He reasoned that its plucked carcass was probably what bubbled in the small cauldron that sat on a tall stand over the fire.
It was the man who sat on the other side of that fire which commanded his attention, though. Lank and gaunt, his tawny skin looked like a worn leather sack that sagged just like the necklace of teeth, bones, and beads that hung around his neck. His head and shoulders were draped in a faded purple cloak that sprawled along the floor behind him. Beneath the dark shadows of his hood, he peered at them with a single good eye that seemed to shine just a little too bright to feel natural.
“Good. You come at the time appointed, as was asked and expected. Now sit, and let us share in words,” he said, motioning to the trio with spindly fingers that ended in long, cracked, and filthy fingernails.
The roguish youths did as the mystic asked without question, but Molo wasn’t so quick to comply. “My boys here tell me they bought some worthy information off of you,” he began.
“Boys,” Sigurdr huffed irritably, earning a shush and a jab in the side from Dibelios. If the stranger seated across from them was bothered by this, or by Molo’s insistence on standing, he didn’t let it show.
“They did indeed,” the haggard man said, “and their coin has served me well for it has seen me fed on this night. Now, if you would please.”
Realizing that he wouldn’t continue until he sat, Molo finally sank down to his rump and crossed his legs. “Whatever it is you told them, we’re not interested,” he began. However, as he began to reach out to return the scorpion armlet to the stranger, the haggard man raised a hand and shook his head.
“There will be no return exchange,” he said flatly. “What is done, is done. They have paid, and you have come, as is in accord with the will of Shodo Khal.”
“Yes, that’s all very fine, but you promised to tell us the location of the treasure,” Sigurdr chimed in, leaning forward against one knee. “So, tell us already, old man.”
The haggard mystic smiled wide, revealing a maw of dirty teeth that ranged from yellowed to blackened. “Shodo Khal finds your enthusiasm pleasing, but it is not yet the time to speak of this,” he said.
“Now hold on. We paid you good money for this information, and we risked severe punishment at the hands of our Captain to bring him here as you requested,” Dibelios retorted. Sitting upright, he crossed his arms and stared down the mystic with a look of haughtiness that Molo would expect from a Riverran noble woman, not a former Khavosan slave. “Our part of the bargain is fulfilled. It’s only fair you give us what you owe.”
Shodo Khal’s smile widened. As it did, the sweltering air in the room grew warmer, more thick with humidity. So, too, did the feeling of wrongness in Molo’s gut. The boys were being played, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know what the mystic’s game was, but he’d find out. Raising a hand with a snap of his fingers, he stole the attention of his youthful new crewmen.
“Seems you two sorely need lessons in negotiation,” he quipped, flashing an amused grin. “Forgive their rudeness. They’re young, quick to give into ambition and glory seeking.”
Taking a deep breath, the mystic laced his fingers together in front of his chest and slouched forward, his Polyphemus-like stare fixed on Molo. “Fret you not. Shodo Khal admires the spiritedness of youth. Yet you are correct, they must learn to properly comport themselves, so let us give them example.”
Rising up from the dirt floor, Molo now saw that the mystic wasn’t slouching. Rather, his back was bowed and hunched, his head hanging low in front of his shoulders. Moving to the table, he retrieved four small wooden bowls which he brought with him back to his spot across the fire. Then he brought up a small kettle, which had been hidden on his side by the flames, and poured a steaming brownish-green liquid into each. Some sort of tea, from the look and smell of it.
One by one, he handed a bowl to Sigurdr, Dibelios, and finally to Molo. Then, taking up his own, he looked across the fire at them and said, “It is my understanding that those of the North often begin the sharing of valued words with refreshment, so let us refresh ourselves with the tea.”
Holding the bowl up in both hands, the mystic looked first to Sigurdr, then Dibelios, and once more to Molo at the last. The boys, eager to get on with the talks, raised their bowls and drank, complaining of its bitterness after quaffing the stuff. Molo raised his as well, but instead of drinking, he brought the bitter tea up to his nose and sniffed. As he did, his gaze met with the mystic’s yet again, and yet again he saw the haggard man’s wicked smile.
“You are wiser than your own young years,” the mystic said, pouring his own bowl into the firepit where it sizzled and steamed.
Setting his own down, Molo glanced to his left and right to see that both Sigurdr and Dibelios had fallen unconscious. Whatever the tea was, it acted fast. Glowering back at the mystic, the stout Captain leaned forward, resting his left arm in his lap in order to hide that he reached into his coat with his right.
“Who are you?” he demanded while he slowly curled his fingers around the grip of his flintlock pistol.
“I am of Shodo Khal,” the mystic replied, his cyclopic stare still fixed on Molo’s gaze.
Shifting his eyes to just above his head to break that direct stare, Molo continued. “They told me you are Shodo Khal,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of each unconscious youth.
“I am, and I am not,” said the mystic. “I am Shodo Khal, and I am of Shodo Khal, as are we all for we are all of us her children, and her ancestors, and her mates.”
“Terali devilry,” Molo hissed, drawing and aiming his pistol in a single swift motion. Expecting danger, he’d loaded the pan with powder before he left and hid the half cocked pistol inside his coat. Fully cocking it as he drew, a single shot at this range was all he’d need to put this deviant down. Then he could return to The Second Lady and fetch some extra hands to carry the boys back, assuming he couldn’t wake them himself.
Yet his opponent was every bit as wily as he. As Molo drew the mystic swiftly raised a closed hand to his lips, opened his palm, and blew. The white powder caught Molo in his face a half second before his gun went off. The ball punched a gory hole through the haggard man’s left cheek and burst out the back of his head, yet still he smiled.
Vision blurring, Molo slumped to his side. Then, just before he lost consciousness, the words of the mystic reached his ears.
“Such spirited offerings for Shodo Khal.”
Molo came to with a choking gasp. Clutching his shirt with both hands, he tried to pull its constricting form away from his chest. The pressure he felt around his lungs was crushing, as if some coiling serpent were squeezing the life out of him. Staring up through blurred eyes, he saw nothing but splotches of darkness against a large smear of silvery white. Was he dying? Would this pressure in his chest crush his lungs and choke the life out of him? Surely, that must be among the cruelest of-
“Captain, wake up!” came the sharp bleat of a youthful voice. Dibelios. It was in that moment that Molo realized he was being shaken.
Letting go of his own shirt, he pushed back against Dibelios’ chest and forced himself to take a deep breath. Releasing it in a quivering huff, blinked away the bleariness in his eyes and sat upright. “I’m alright, I think,” he panted, glancing around as his vision returned to him. “What happened? Where are we?”
“Some fates blasted jungle ruin,” answered the deep and sonorous voice of Sigurdr, who was seated up against a shadowed wall.
“A ruin?” Molo repeated. His vision still hadn’t fully cleared, nor had his breath fully returned to him.
“Aye, that’s the way of it, and whoever brought us here bound us up and stripped us of our arms,” Dibelios said.
Looking down at himself, Molo tried to focus on his hands. After a moment his vision cleared, and he saw that they were indeed bound in coils of vines, as were his ankles. Dibelios and Sigurdr were bound, too, though only Sigurdr’s hands were tied behind his back. Catching Molo’s puzzled expression, Dibelios explained that they had all been left with hands bound behind them, but he had flexibility and practice enough to move his hands when bound from his back to his front.
“I moved your arms under your legs in the same manner while you were still sleeping,” he said, grinning. “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to, but you’re surprisingly flexible for a man of your build. I planned to help Sigurdr, too, but your waking panic started once I’d finished.”
“Did they bind him with vines also?” Molo asked, and Dibelios nodded. “Good. Then we should be able to free ourselves easily.”
“How?” Dibelios asked.
“Gnaw through our bindings I’ll bet,” Sigurdr quipped.
“Doubtful our captors would give us time enough for that,” Molo chuckled. “Luckily, I can still feel my boot knife. Right leg, Dibelios, along the outside.”
Leaning onto his left side to make it easier for Dibelios to reach into his boot, Molo set to cutting both boys free as soon as his arms and legs were unbound. “Consider that a lesson, lads; always stash a knife on you. Now let’s see if we can figure out where we are.”
That task proved about as difficult as Molo suspected. Telar’s jungles were like an undulating black mass at night. Its thick canopy and the density of the foliage would make it all but impossible to get their bearings, but there were two bits of good fortune which played to their favor. Firstly, the moon was full tonight, giving the trio a fair amount of light to move by in more open areas. Though there would be few of those in the deep jungle, it was still advantageous.
Their second stroke of luck they would only discover once they exited the ruin in which they awoke, but that would prove more of a challenge than they first thought. While the crumbled walls which loomed over them had fallen low, leaving a fair amount of debris scattered about the ground around them, they’d awakened at the bottom of a large pit. Given the plainness of the walls, which bore no defining characteristics that weren’t the result of damage and wear, Molo guessed this had likely been a storage or larder at one point. Alas, as the structure above crumbled over the ages the hall which once led into this space had become blocked with debris. There were also little in the way of solid handholds along the walls, as each attempt to climb caused the now fragile stonework to flake and crumble, making far too easy for them to slip.
They had been considering boosting someone out to try lowering a vine or branch, but that ended up being unnecessary for a reason that at first struck them as alarming. As they were hatching their plan, a pair of Telari men dressed in a form of colorful ceremonial garb spotted them and drew arms. Quick to act, Molo hurled his knife at one of them. Its blade plunged into his throat and he toppled forward into the pit.
The second spat out a curse at them in an old Telari dialect, a phrase roughly equivalent to “mangy cur,” as he flung a stone at Molo from his sling. Sigurdr, having quickly taken notice of their foe’s aim and moving far faster than one would expect for one of his stature, protected Molo by tackling him aside. While he did, Dibelios had armed himself with the first man’s sling and flung his own stone square into the side of the second’s head.
Like his companion, he crumpled to the ground and fell forward into the pit, snapping his neck when he landed. Realizing the pair was likely sent to retrieve them, they looted the bodies and found that each man had a sling and pouch of stones, a coil of flexible vine, and a rusted but still usable Bertosian naval sabre they likely plundered from local picaroons. The talented youths armed themselves with the weapons while Molo set to tying a large loop and the end of a vine, which he then had Sigurdr use to rope a jutting part of the wall above. After giving it a firm tug to make sure it was secure and could hold their weight, Molo and his young crewmen finally climbed out.
“By Craich’s great, swinging cock,” Sigurdr exclaimed, drawing an immediate scoff from Dibelios.
“Why do you insist on taking the names of your gods in the most obscene manner possible?” the half-blood complained.
“Well what else would you have me say to this?” the Stenisian countered, gesturing to what lay before them.
Molo spoke no words of amazement, for though what he beheld amazed him, he felt no excitement at its sight. Standing amidst a tract of jungle long cleared of its trees and surrounded by crumbling ruins similar to the one from which they just emerged, there loomed a towering ziggurat of seven levels. Leafy overgrowth scaled its left side, and torches flickered on either side of the long flight of steps which ascended to the ancient chamber that stood at its zenith. Between the torches, just visible within the warmth of their light, at least two dozen men and women wearing similar garb to the pair they slew swayed to an eerie, rhythmic chant.
“I see your meaning, my crude friend,” Dibelios said, eyeing the pyramidal structure with a gleam of curious excitement. “I’d wager if we were to climb that towering monolith, we’d find a lord’s riches stashed in that structure at its crest.”
“A bit too obvious for my liking, but these jungle tribesmen are simple in their thinking,” Sigurdr replied.
Immediately recognizing the reemergence of that frustrating youthful arrogance, Molo grabbed up the nearest thing he could find to switch the fool boys with. That ended up being the length of vine which they’d used to climb out of their makeshift prison. Taking up the end of it, he lashed both of them twice across the backs of their legs.
“Keep quiet and listen you damned fools,” he hissed as they complained. “Firstly, before either of you Highfather damned idiots speak one more word on the matter, remember that these ‘simple’ Telari fooled you both into blindly drinking drugged tea on the promise of that treasure.”
That cowed them. Particularly Sigurdr who, even in the moonlight, visibly flushed in embarrassment.
“Second, there’s at least two dozen fanatics on the steps of that temple. Even if we assume there’s no one else roaming about these ruins, and I am not willing to bet on that, that’s still a dozen apiece for you two. And I stress you two because if you were fool enough to storm that temple, I wouldn’t be joining you on that suicidal venture. So tell me, are you honestly stupid enough to believe you both could take on that many armed only with slings, and rusty swords, and without so much as a padded jerkin to protect your bodies?”
Their embarrassment deepened, and each youth was forced to begrudgingly admit the truth of Molo’s cutting words. Breathing a sigh of relief, the young Captain dropped the length of vine and gave the taller youths each a pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Now let’s get out of here before they realize the ones they sent for us aren’t coming back.”
“How are we to do that when we don’t know where in the jungle we are?” asked Sigurdr.
“That’s true, and we can’t well go hiking in the dark,” said Dibelios.
“Oh, that part’s easy. We sail a canoe down the river,” Molo said with casual confidence.
“River? What river?” Dibelios asked, voicing the puzzlement both young men had on their faces.
“You two really are green for how far you’ve traveled. While you both avariciously sized up the temple, I took a cursory look at our surroundings and…” Turning to face them, Molo slowly waved his right hand out and back.
Sure enough, a wide river was plainly visible in the moonlight a short ways from where they stood. It ran along one edge of the old ruins. When they followed its curving bank with their gazes, they found a shallow sloping tract along the river’s edge where three long outrigger canoes had been dragged onto land and hitched to a series of wooden posts.
“By Craich’s great, swinging-”
“Don’t say it!” Dibelios hissed, pressing a finger hard to Sigurdr’s chest, much to the larger man’s amusement.
“That’s enough from both of you,” Molo countered as he quickly crept toward the next collapsing structure. Beckoning them to follow, he instructed them both to stay low, stay quiet, and to keep their eyes and ears open. “If we’re careful, we might just escape without being seen.”
The youths nodded their agreement, and together the trio picked their way down to the river’s edge from ruin to ruin. In places where they could keep to low jungle brush, they did so, careful to disturb the plants as little as possible. When forced to contend with open gaps, they bent low and scampered quickly. At one point they were forced to cross a wide path that must’ve once been a main thoroughfare. Three men, garbed similarly to the pair they felled back at their makeshift prison, conversed in their old Telari dialect as they leisurely paced up the road.
Quick and quiet they each dispatched a single one. Sigurdr snapped the neck of his man. Dibelios clapped a hand around the mouth of his and ran him through with that rusty sword he picked up. Molo’s was fastest of all. Swiftly grabbing his target from behind, he cut the Telari’s throat with his knife before he could utter a sound.
They reached the canoes a few minutes later. Like their hands had been, the boats were tethered with lengths of vine instead of rope. Molo cut one free with a swift pull of his knife while Dibelios and Sigurdr made sure they had oars. Then the trio started to push the outrigger into the water.
At last, the cry of alarm Molo expected from the very start rang out. A nearby tribal waving a torch pointed them out as he called to his kinfolk. Those in supplication on the ziggurat’s steps now swarmed down at them, hurrying as quick as they could to the shore to fling spears and hurl stones from their slings, but the trio had too much of a head start. Before the gathering cultists could reach the river shore, Molo and the two youths were already in the water.
Glancing back as they put distance between themselves and that murderous Telari tribe, Molo breathed a sigh of relief and directed the boys to row in the direction of the night’s gathering clouds, as that likely would lead them back to the sea. However, something caught his eye as he turned to face forward. Before it passed out of sight, first behind the ruins of a closer structure, then behind the trees and steep slopes which bordered the languid river, he saw the figure of a woman stood atop the ziggurat.
Though it was only a glimpse, and a distant one at that, Molo saw her alluring form in the temple’s torchlight as clearly as if she stood but two steps in front of him. Tawny skinned and lithe, she was naked from the waist up and the sheer skirt she wore beneath her bejeweled belt of leather and silver plates left little to the imagination.
Wide hips.
Thin waist.
Long legs.
Pert breasts.
Yet luscious as her curves and forms were, it was the gorgeousness of her visage; with her high cheekbones, plush lips, and the long black hair that framed her beauty; which most gripped him. And more even than that, her eyes, which shimmered like scintillant emeralds.
Molo only glimpsed her for a moment, maybe two. Even so, as he, Dibelios, and Sigurdr paddled through that night blackened jungle, the image of that woman remained stark and clear before his eyes. The tempting and terrifying image of Shodo Khal.
Oh how she would haunt him, that vaunted “Prince of Otters.” Yet for how long, the Highfather alone only knew.