By the Pact

Chapter 2-3

Myrkan inhaled deeply, and the odor of burnt flesh filled his nose. He relished the moment, and his claws flexed at the memories of ripping humans apart and destroying their pitiful city.

Asalari, the lowest among the yalari, scoured the ruins and ensured the city’s complete destruction. The white marble of the rich residences lay crumbled and smoldering, their gilded ornaments shattered as a reminder to those who thought of opposing Myrkan’s kin. Further away from the palace, where the poor once lived, charred stumps marked the remains of their wooden houses.

Every now and then, screams rose from the distance as the asalari got their claws on a living victim, but otherwise the fallen city remained quiet. Myrkan smirked at that: the capital of Devanshari finally belonged to yalari. Yet the war itself was enjoyable. Humans bled their last drops of blood in vain attempts to push away the ones they called demons, but they didn’t pose a real threat. The worst part was the wait to wear their magic barrier down and push them deeper and deeper into their land until only one city remained. After that, when they had nowhere to run and their protection waned, yalari made quick work of them. Myrkan’s tongue moved when he recalled the metallic taste in his mouth, when his sharp teeth dug deep into his victims. He might be a kanayalari—the highest among the yalari, cunning and calculating—but his instincts still demanded the thrill of the hunt.

The familiar sound of claws biting into the stone alerted him of another yalari’s approach, but to turn would show weakness. Instead, he threw a question: “The artifact?”

“It’s done.” Fyertash crested the rubble and balanced with ease on the uneven surface. “The pactees accompanied by asalari squads are now seeking out libraries and temples to destroy any records of it.”

From a distance, Fyertash could have been taken for Myrkan’s twin with his long face and hooked nose, but no yalari would consider another to be a brother, and Myrkan had no doubt the covenant between him and the handful of other yalari was coming to an end. They were all determined to see the artifact destroyed, but with it gone, each would focus on their own interests and wouldn’t hesitate to go against former allies if needed.

“They may have taken some,” Myrkan said.

“I doubt they burdened themselves with writings when they ran for their lives.” Fyertash glanced at him with little concern. “Couldn’t your spy…?”

Myrkan huffed and shook his head. “She’s out of my reach now.” He rubbed his chin. “We need eyes across the waters.”

“That’s something we’ll have to discuss with others.” Yet Fyertash didn’t move from his spot.

Myrkan tensed as his instincts sharpened in anticipation of assault, even if his voice of reason suggested that Fyertash would not attack openly. The cunning yalari had barely enough power to be considered equal to Myrkan, let alone other kanayalari, so he’d likely use deception and subterfuge instead, maybe pitting Myrkan against another of their kin. Yet a preemptive strike would reveal Myrkan’s weakness.

Before he could decide on the best reaction, a sudden pain twisted his stomach.

With his vision blurred, he frantically searched for the assassin even if his chances for survival became slim. Fyertash must have been acting as a distraction, allowing the real assassin to sneak up from behind Myrkan… but Fyertash clutched his guts in pain as well.

The sensation passed, and Myrkan regained his composure first. “Looks like we aren’t done here after all.” He inhaled the breeze coming from the ruined port, and the faint scent of magic confirmed his suspicions and—though he wouldn’t admit it openly—brought concerns. Two hundred years by yalari count, twice as much by human, passed without incident, so what changed?

Fyertash huffed as he regained his poise and then grimaced, looking at the sea, undoubtedly concerned with similar thoughts. “If we’re to launch another invasion, we’ll need to prepare, replenish the ranks of asalari, and find new pactees… then find a way for them to cross the water.”

“It’s just a disruption or a failed attempt, so we have time. And if it’s a trap, all the more we shouldn’t rush.” Myrkan rubbed his chin. “I think we have to remind our human allies of the agreement made centuries ago, and find out why they failed on their end.”

“I’d suggest sending Uganel. He’s good in human games and illusion, so he’ll gather information without giving away too much.” Fyertash flashed a cunning smile. “It would also help to maintain… the cooperative mood among those remaining here.”

Myrkan gave him a restrained smile. Uganel was last one to join their covenant. He skimped on resources and constantly antagonized everyone, going as far as questioning Myrkan’s leadership that others had reluctantly accepted. Sending Uganel overseas would limit his influence and indeed would help maintain control. Such suggestion also revealed the depth of Fyertash’s insight, and Myrkan searched his face for hidden intents, but the other yalari revealed nothing except anticipation and excitement. Fyertash could have been looking for a closer alliance, since, with his meager power, hardly anyone respected his insights, and listening to him seemed like a better choice than turning him down, at least for the time being.

Later on, when all was done and their covenant became obsolete, Myrkan would consider destroying Fyertash, not for concern of his meager power, but for his adept ability to play others thus threatening to turn traitor or rival.

After all, no yalari ever had a brother.