Snippet #2342852

Udru felt the familiar twisting in his stomach as the liquid air of the rift gate began to shimmer. Behind him, one of the new recruits doubled over, spilling his lunch onto the muddy courtyard. No one laughed, few among them had never puked at the arrival of a caravan. The world itself seemed to lurch forward when the portal opened and Urdu's stomach with it. At the apex of the parabolic gate, the ley stone that powered it's magic shone like a captured star. Some of the men hid their eyes and another rookie in the back emptied his stomach. This was not a normal caravan.

Urdu stepped back as the first horse came through. Blinds kept the beast from going berserk in the passage. Watching the hordes and their loaded carraiges go by, Urdu wondered if he might mask his men similarly to keep them from staining the courtyard. Three caravans past, bread, both solid and liquid, everything to keep men alive in this hellish swamp. Then behind them, Uru saw the reason for the disturbance, not mass, but magic had destabilized the portal. The troops fell to their knees. Urdu followed them, not daring to raise his eyes until he heard the words, "marked follow me." The man covered in faintly glowing tatoos, turned command over to one of the unblooded conscripts before following after the white pony and it's cloaked rider.

The magelord leaned upon the stone window ledge peering out through the sheets of rain. Behind him and beneath his notice, slaves scurried about with furniture, lamps and brooms trying to make the room fit for one of the dragon blood. Astride his sunken shoulders, Urdu waited for his orders. He wished he had been prepared for the arrival of a noble, but he understood why the mages would want to keep their enemies unaware of their movements. "Leave us," said the sorcerer, sending the servants out the door in a flood. It closed courteously behind them, leaving the two men standing in silence and surrounded by stone. The sorcerer turned about, pulling back the hood of his cloak. Beneath, Urdu saw the perfect ebony complexion of the Ishar bloodline, marred only by a single gold piercing in the man's brow. He surprised Urdu by extending a hand, "Alidar ap Ishar."

Urdu graciously accepted the hand, it was not often that an unblooded, even a Marked, was allowed to touch a sorcerer. "Urdu, faithful servant of House Jheeard." Alidor smiled pleasantly, "I have heard of you from your Lord."

"You honor me, my Lord."

"In fact, he tells me," said the sorcerer pacing over to his luggage. "That you are quite skilled..." he rummaged in his things until he found a metallic board covered in an etched pattern of hexagons, "... at the game."

"My Lord..."

"Oh I know most of the sorcerers won't play you." He placed the board on the room's central table, "the fact that they will not speaks volumes of your skill and their vanity." He gestured for the marked to sit. "You will find I despise vanity, Urdu." The sorcerer's eyes, solid pearls of lavender, followed the Marked man as he approached the board. "It's a lie, you see, vanity, and I despise lies. They stink, Urdu, and I can smell them. That's why they send me... in cases like this." Alidor placed a bowel full to the brim with flattened beads, black and white. "Choose your color."

"My Lord," Urdu dared as he began to pick out his black zota from the bowel, "might I ask you your reason for coming."

Alidor made a face, "do you intend to stain the purity of the zota board with politics?"

"Forgive me I..."

Alidor waved away his apology, "I jest, better I tell you that worry does not throw your game. Word has traveled through the rift of your prisoners and their... exotic... story."

"Lies, I assure you, siah."

"We shall see," replied the sorcerer, placing his first white piece on the center hex, "like I said, I can smell a lie."