Uricon,
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Work In Progress
In which we meet the key players, and the scene is set. The principal activity is the procuring of Szarantas's daughter, Shalima.
"Mercy, he said?"
The man nodded quickly. "Yes. ThasWasHeSaid."
Jerud watched the man's adam's apple bobbing up-and-down with mild interest. He always found this fascinating, and was a typically whimsical reason for why the man retained his position, and life.
"Fine. Mercy it is. I am younger than he is."
By this, he was trying to imply his youthful flexibility was another example of his superiority over his subject. Besides, the heat of the fire raging in the grate behind him had somewhat mellowed his mood.
"What does he have to offer me?"
The man paused. "Ah."
"You didn't ask, did you," He swivelled his chair and reclined, gently rocking backwards and forwards, considering the sparkling embers within the raging fire before him.
"I know what he has to offer me, He has a daughter a little younger than me, does he not? She is fair to look at. Considering his pitiful yield, an appropriate compensation, I would think."
Behind him, Jerud heard the man give out a little gasp of air. Was it trepidation of the task, or relief for not being blamed for failing to fulfil his duties?
But Jerud, usually attentive of such details, had more pressing concerns. He flapped a hand vaguely over a shoulder. "Mmm. Off ou go, then. Do your job,"
And with grateful gushings, the man pattered backwards from the room as quickly as his gangly frame allowed, and was gone,
Jerud considered his position once again. He felt it was wise to do so at every available opportunity. so as never to take any given situation for granted. Every moment spawned opportunities, known and unknown. It was his subjects task to keep him informed, and his job to maximise these possibilities to his own, and consequently his kingdom's ends.
"Horbin."
A young man, sitting to the right of the throne, legs curled around a mess of paper shreddings like a bird feathering his nest, paused briefly, the interruption catching him on some subliminal level, continuing almost immediately the subdividing of the paper to the individual letters that had once formed a decree of war from the now deceased Philner of Tuxingo. Tuxingo no longer boasted the greatest population of eligible virgins. Of the males, few retained the organs to be eligible, and of the females, few had remained unviolated. Jerud did not tolerate disorder. The sacking of Tuxingo was methodical. Procedure after procedure brought ruin and desolation from a city famed for its moral and artistic prowess, each tick on the list wiping an irreplaceably valuable attribute from the city - the destruction of the cathedral rocked their religion, the searing flames in the universal library cut short their education and history, the quieting of the nursery removed a whole new generation of Tuxingens, the parliamentarians had no throats nor hands to guide the democratic process, the young men's castration destroyed the hopes of the upcoming generation, the young women 's vioalation giving universal shame, but a reward for the conquering army. A few of the young men were granted a reprieve from mutilation to cater for the alternative sexual preferences of some of the soldiers.
The young man sitting to the right of the throne was oblivious to these facts, or that his sister was soon to become an object in his king's collection of beautiful items.
The decree was so many words, organized not randomly, but in a form whose pattern would be an eternal mystery to the boy, however much he dissected and rearranged it. Every new arrangement held new possibilities, and even the same arrangements were never quite the same each time.
Jerud leant over the boy. "What have we today, boy. A tangle of words, a fine mirror to the tangle that dear Philner's fine words have made his city. Art and corruption. Reduced to random, meaningless cuttings. You inspire me, Horbin. I would have your honest insight nowhere but by my side."
Horbin continued his arrangements, and suddenly, pulled a handful from the pile of paper fragments, and started arranging them in front of him, one word per radial arm, spiralling out from a centre. He paused only to nudge letters to make them straight to his eye, and finally, had a perfectly symmetrical radiating string of words. Jerud had barely enough time to read the words before Horbin gave a cry of rage, and scuffed them with the palms of his hands until every letter was individually crumpled, torn, scattered or otherwise defaced.
"Down, Hurt, Dead, Small, Join, Rise, Around, Trick, Love, Death, Joy, More." Jerud repeated to himself quietly.
He pondered on these words for some time, whilst Horbin glared at the mess left behind. Jerud suspected that Horbin shared his obsession for everything having a place. The difference was that Jerud had goals, which he achieved. Horbin could never achieve his perfection.
The words, though, had angered Horbin. They were not neat. They did not follow a pattern.
Jerud followed the words, and as a sequence of events flowed through his mind, each word slotted into place, with dreadful clarity.
"I will not die, and no conspiracy of love will make me fail. Horbin, you are the eyes no other subject can be. "
He bent down, and kissed the boy fondly on the forehead. "I thank you."
Horbin continued staring at the mess with no response to the show of affection.
Eventually, after the king had feasted, given punishment to unfit subjects, and released his sexual desires into one of his collection of beautiful people, Horbin slowly, letter-by-letter, retrieved and straightened out the manuscript, and returned the little squares to the collection within the confines of his crossed legs, to await another day.
- * -
Nazdrak cursed his limbs as he backed himself from the throne room. He felt constantly as though they were attempting independence with each movement that he made. When the doors were finally closed before him, his body slumped over itself with relief.
As a boy, he had been a confident athlete, lithe and with a shining demeanour that made him attractive to many.
He had been a great hope in the game of Milawkey, a game which though the city had invented it, had not been greatly successful for the last century, despite the avid attention its various rulers had given it.
Unfortunate that on a night prior to the final between Grenzall and his city, Minovar, ten years before, he had allowed himself to be made drunk by a strange beauty, who led him back to a desolate alley, where she was replaced by three large shadows, that became large, threatening men. He had fought bravely, and even felled one briefly, before he was overpowered. His legs had been placed over two crates separated by a foot of darkness. After the felled man had jumped with great force and weight down into that gap, Nazdrak's splintered legs never quite recovered, and the city's sporting hopes vanished in a single cruel act.
Many were astonished that the King had not wreaked vengeance on Grendzell, but sport was sport, war was war. Never the two to be confused. The present king would be unlikely to identify with this stance. To him, life was a war. It was his father's inattention to this vital detail that had undoubtably resulted in his disappearance and assumed demise.
Nazdrak's bitterness knew no boundaries following this incident. When his legs had healed sufficiently to allow them to be utilised in a somewhat ungainly and haphazard manner, the king had given him an honoured place at his court, first as companion, later as information gatherer, and ultimately as confident and scheme-hatcher. Nazdrak felt that he had not so much corrupted the prior king's perception, but rather broadened his outlook to the deception and plots within his kingdom. He was ultimately proven correct.
Today though, Nazdrak fulfilled a somewhat lowlier task, attending to the whimsical fancies of the new King, keeping the Kingdom accostomed to the fear it now held for his presence, as the outward manifestation of the King's will.
He knew however that many of the subjects that he passed each day would themselves be the eyes of the Monarch that saw his movements, keeping a careful watch for any plotting or treachery.
What Jerud did not realise was that Nazdrak's schemes were always to combat the enemies of the city, or indeed of the Kingdom. Treachary was something applied to others who would be foolish enough to be your enemies. Nazdrak himself would be unable to explain his fierce allegiance to the city. To him, this was just how he was. Such internal dialogue was irrelevant.
Some hazarded that his unfaltering dedication to the Kingdom was to make up for his failure to fulfil the city's sporting expectations of him. Indeed, speculation and opinion of Nazdrak was a fierce day-to-day past-time. Many saw him as a self-obsessed vehicle of vengeance out of which no good for the Kingdom could be gained. Others saw him as a conqueror of his own circumstances, an example to all of how one could achieve power and greatness irrespective of the events of one's life.
At times like these though, Nazdrak had to expend much of his energies keeping his internal dialogue at bay. It introduced only doubt, which was counter-productive to his service to the Kingdom. It was this battle that had kept him from fulfilling his duties efficiently on his last visit.
As he made his way through the winding, cobbled streets of Minovar, the people of the kingdom either stopped to stare, or bustled into doorways or alleyways. There always followed him a general sense of trepidation, and a hope that he would not be destined for your door-step.
He felt some sadness that he was the bearer or bad tidings more often than not. The D'Alaiel family had lost their only son already, although many who knew the family secretly thought this a blessing to the family. Horbin was not very communicative. It was only the father's uncanny ability to predict the correct sowing, reaping and appropriate crops for each year to give an excellent yield that alerted him to a potential source of knowledge beneficial to the whole Kingdom. It became apparent that the man himself could give no clear idea of how this information was gained, but that his strange and reclusive son had a presence of knowledge that went beyond the mere academic learning that he had experienced whilst at University. The father was understandably reluctant to admit his son as being the source of his remarkable feats of agriculture, and his son even less reluctant to communicate in any form.
He had finally had to insist the boy return with him to the King's intrigued court for a trial period. Over a few weeks, it became increasingly obvious that the boy's eccentric behaviour held its own pattern of meaning which, at seemingly random times, would yield a prediction. One such prediction had involved orange pips spat at a map of the kingdom that seemed to trace a path from Tuxingo to Minovar, with a particularly large congregation of pips at Tuxingo, after which Horbin had carefully scooped all pips to Minovar, and ground them until they made a hole right through the map where Minovar should have been. The boy had looked at King Jerud, flitting over different parts of the King's face in order to avoid the eyes. Then he had picked up the pips one-by-one, collected thim in a pile, and over the following few days, meticulously ground the pips up against each other and the rough ground until they were dust.
King Jerud and Nazdrak had debated the worth of the child's behaviour. But when they were honest, they agreed that the whole experience had left them with a feeling of doom.
As Nazdrak now walked to the boy's former dwelling once again, he felt that in some way, he was no longer serving the kingdom. These fleeting thoughts were hard to catch, hard to stop, hard to prevent. Nazdrak treated them as ruthlessly and dispassionately as he did any other enemy of the Kingdom. He did however allow the guilt of these intruders' presence to surface regularly. It was a weakness, he knew.
He enjoyed his outings. They helped him reflect on matters. The soft noise of horses hooves, the creatures being led behind him had an almost mesmeric, but nonetheless calming effect.
"Stop." he called. The guards that formed a protective barrier around him halted, their chain-mail chinking to stillness. The street went quiet, and everybody stopped still, as if this would stop them from being noticed, and perhaps hence the subject of Nazdrak's attention.
The wind was blowing hard today. Nazdrak, dressed in black, with long, striking white hair blowing to one side in the wind, his misshapen legs like a roughly-hewn perch for a falcon to rest on before swooping on its prey. He made an imposing figure.
Nazdrak stood for a few minutes, watching the people before him, taking in their demeanour. This was information itself on how the King's subjects regarded him. He did not enjoy the fear he instilled in these people. His fear was that one day this might turn into anger against the King. However, the King's power was absolute, and the perception of this also needed maintaining.
With an inward sigh, he turned about-face, and strode into a small shop nearby, gesturing on his way to one of the soldiers.
Three soldiers broke away and disappeared down a nearby alleyway.
The shop was small, but with overflowing, but nonetyheless organized array of trinkets and small wooden boxes; potions in small brown or green bottles, and pungent-scented tied purse-sized bags, their contents unknown but to those that recognized their scents and textures.
A man stood at the back of the shop, arms akimbo. He wore a sackcloth cap, and a gown roughly-woven of flax, tied in the middle with rope. One had the distinct impression that the man probably farmed, gathered, wove, and made the garments himself, as he seemed to be unusually proud of these clothes that could easily identify one as a pauper.
"Mr. Nazdrak. So delighted to meet with you. Has your King some need for some herb for ailment, or ... " he paused while he generated a wry smile. "... perhaps recreational purposes?"
The smile remained. He knew that the king had a court herbalist who tended specifically to him, and his experimentation with various perception-altering concoctions was legendary. Indeed, there was an underground market for those who wished to try the King's latest sense-delight.
"Of course, i'm sure the King would love to try some of your fine preparations. However, I am seeking the whereabouts of a gentleman who goes by the name of Szaranta D'Alaiel. Did he happen to pass through? Pay you a social visit?" he gestured vaguely with his had. "... Or somesuch?"
The man shook his head. "No. business is not so good lately. When times get harder, people can't afford to tend to their health. Irony is, that's how epidemics start, and then there's not enough of me to go around." He smiled wryly. "Mad, isn't it? All down to the crops failing. Szaranta's predictions were as thin on the ground as his crops, I gather." The smile dropped. "That will be why you want him. Am I right?"
Nazdrak had been waiting impassively whilst the man was giving his speech. He was quite aware of the implicit undertones that the man did not believe in Szaranta's guilt, and that the length of the speech would hopefully allow the farmer to put a good distance between him and the soldiers. Finally, the door to the shop opened, and the soldier that he had gestured to before entering the shop, returned, giving a slight nod as he came in.
"Thank you, Mr..."
"Frahal Mayar."
Nazdak raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Sounds like a reisahadian name. Some of our most prominent herbalists... and practiced of the veiled arts ... have originated from your land."
The man gave no idication to his thoughts. "Indeed. My jars of herbs are a humble offering in that respect, but it's what I know."
Nazdrak turned suddenly, and made his way from the shop, soldiers following obediently behind. As he left, he said, "I will remember my visit, and your words. Herbalist."
And he was in the gusting wind again, whipping his clothes around him, eddies sending his hair cascading. He looked a dramatic figure, but for his face, which to a careful observer, looked ashen.
A guard walked forwards from the nearby alley, holding the arm of an unexceptional looking man, grey-haired and small of stature. He stumbled a few times as he was being ushered, a sign that his small stature was perhaps more than nature, and also a consequence of frugal circumstances.
The guard bought the man before Nazdrak. Lost in his thoughts, he noticed the man only when the guard finally barked, "Sir. The farmer. As you requested. We found him making his way from the rear of the shop."
Nazdrak pushed his thoughts to one side to address the task at hand. "Szaranta D'Alaiel, where were you going?" And then, without waiting for a reply, "Did you give chase."
The guard shook his head, causing is mail to clatter against his helmet. "No, Sir. When he realised that we pursued him, he stopped and waited."
Nazdrak smiled. "Visiting the herbalist, Szaranta?"
Szaranta kept his eyes to the ground, and quietly said, "No, sir. I was t-taking a short cut, t-to the market. That is all."
"Via the herbalist?"
"No. Via the alley-way."
Nazdrak's smile was waning. "So it was not you I saw through the window of the herbalist's shop. The person who mysteriously disappeared once we arrived"
The man was silent for a while. "You must be mistaken. I visit him, yes. But not today. Today, I am going to the market to get some jadji worms."
Nazdrak tapped his hand against his side in irritation as this was being related. He did not tolerate untruths. To a point, they were a political tool or personal game. Beyond that, they were a weapon against the kingdom. Sometimes, when he allowed judgement to cloud his fear of the King, Nazdrak would find himself questioning the commandments that seemed little more than petty whims.
But when he had such creatures as Szaranta who would claim citizenship in the Kingdom, but plot and scheme secretly, and lie to an ambassador of the King, he could understand that perhaps the King had a greater insight, and that such people needed to know better their place under the rule of Jerud.
"Szaranta, I believe we have need to resolve the issue of your overdue commitment to the King. It would, I believe, be more advantageous if we returned to your dwelling-place."
The soldiers led Szaranta over to the awaiting equine transport. The horses were restless for exercise, their heads bobbing and turning, their hooves impatiently attempting to trot-on-the-spot.
The soldiers mounted their steeds, one of them pulling Szaranta up after him,so that the man sat in front of him. So slight was his frame, that he was as unlikely to obscure the soldier's view as a child.
Nazdrak waited until everyone else was mounted before jumping astride his steed with one elegant movement. On a horse, his crooked legs went unnoticed, and showed no handicap. And on this horse, he became an awe-inspiring figutre. His horse was a beautiful young mare whose eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence, which she utilised only with those that she decided were worthy,
She had a pure grey-white coat that seemed to glow silver, and a mane and tail of pure white hair. She was beautiful to behold in her own right, but with Nazdrak's tall, dark, almost menacing presence, the combination was formidable.
"Mahzidral, my beautiful, " he whispered in her ear once he was astride her. And with that, no kick nor bridle were necessary to spur her on - she cantered proudly to the outskirts of the town, the band of soldiers following some yards behind. Then she broke into a joyful gallop, slowing only once they were in sight of their destination: Szaranta's farmhouse.
They dismounted to walk the last hundred yards to the house. It was getting towards late-afternnon, and as winter was now well under way the sky was beginning to darken. Nazdra k did not fear the night. In many ways he admired the stealth tbat it afforded, and felt some form of kinship with the seeming nothingness that infact held a dangerous diversity of activity. However, as an advocate of the King, he would naturally be a target, and a much easier one under the cover of night.
"We need to conclude this matter promptly, " he said across to a soldier, his next-in command. He did not veil his voice in whispers; Szaranta needed to understand that he would not tolerate evasiveness or other foolishness, and would use whichever means seemed most apt to conclude the visit promptly and fruitfully.
"Szaranta, would you show us into your abode. We would be delighted to meet your family."
Szaranta stood, looking a sorry figure, flanked by armoured soldiers. His legs looked as though they might buckle at any moment through sheer fright, and he gripped his hands before him, as much for comfort as to keep them warm in the early evening, as it turned colder.
The two guards to each side of him pushed him forward to send him reluctantly on his way, and he started his stumble towards his home, a place transformed suddenly from sanctuary to a place of doomed departures. First his son, now he feared, the king whose lustful appetites were well-known, it would be his daughter. He started weeping softly to himself as he approached the door of his residence, paused to wipe the tears from his grimy face with his sleeve and to compose himself, and entered. Three of the soldiers followed him, Nazdrak following behind. Several other guards dispersed about the exterior boundaries of the farmyard in case of any unexpected departures. Two were left to guard the front door.
"... Szaranta dear. You're back early... Did you get.. ?"
Szaranta shook his head quickly, and indicated behind him. "We have visitors." His voice barely squeezed by his throat, such was his anxiety.
Nazdrak entered, and gave a quick bow. "Mrs. Cachamel D'Alaiel. We did not have the pleasure of meeting during my last visit. Your husband appraised you of the situation, I trust?" He turned to look at Szaranta, who kept his eyes down to avoid betraying anything of what he was thinking.
Cachamel was icy in her response. "You have taken our son, and he has already won you a great and glorious ... " she almost spat her hate into the word, " ... victory. That should be enough payment for a lifetime. Go, back to your master, tell him to grow up and learn to be grateful!"
The room screamed silence at each and every one of its occupants. The soldiers knew of Nazdrak's capabilities when his anger, particularly for his sense of honour, was provoked.
The room was heavy with the aroma of herbs, some of which were hanging in tied bundles from the rafters, but much of which was emanating from a large pot, hanging over the fire-range at the far end of the room.
Nazdrak walked up to the fire, the heat of the raging flames enough to keep most people from prying too closely. However, Nazdrak was no stranger to pain, and had learned to master his fear of the many forms that it took, both in receiving such pain, and with inflicting it on others.
He leaned over to look into the bubbling brew, and inhaled a deep breath, taking in the full breadth of its intoxicating aroma.
"A fascinating mixture. A broth of vegetables and meat I feel sure cannot be of your own stock. And a combination of herbs to promote health in adverse conditions, as well as to boost the spirits. A potent combination."
"It sustains us, " Cachamel said gruffly.
Nazdrak indicated to two of the three soldiers that had accompanied him into the house, and the came forward, ready for bidding.
"A flame, however powerful, is only transient, " he smiled through clenched teeth towards Cachamel.
"Tip it over the fire, " he said, quietly but firmly to the soldiers.
The soldiers did not hesitate, and neither did Cachamel. "No! That is all we have to eat." She stepped forwards in anguish and anger, only to find the flat of the third soldier's sword drawn against her sternum to stay her.
Nazdrak indicated to the soldiers, who were readying themselves to topple the pot. They stopped and waited for further commands.
"They are obedient, as am I to the King. However we are none of us automatons. We each have the independent thought that allows us to adapt appropriately to each situation. We each have our own values. And... " he paused briefly, and looked at Szaranta. "... our own weaknesses. Mine was to accept your request for mercy. The King needs his taxes for the efficient administration and protection of our extended kingdom. Those who cannot provide in money, shall pay in another way."
Cachamel interruped, quietly, though the fury was clearly lurking just under the surface. "We have paid, every day for the absence of our son. Without his predictive powers, our crops are at the mercy of the elements. We bought imported grain for sowing this year, to give a high-quality crops and large yield. Had we only known that your damned King would steal our son away - our whole crop is ruined. So nearly, are we."
Nazdrak approached her, the soldier removing the sword that stayed the woman. Nazdrak took her by the shoulders, and said gently, "He is not stolen. He is doing great work for the King. And you will survive your poor year to recover next year. It is so easy to find a scapegoat when crops fail. Some even blame the divine mahazatal!"
Cachamel tried struggling her shoulders from Nazdrak's grip, but the more she struggled, the tighter she was held. She looked over to Szaranta, who remained with his eyes resignedly to the floor. Cachamel normally felt she could rely on her husband under any circumstance. She could not help but feel a little resentment for his inability to help, now, when it really mattered. It was an unreasonable thought, she knew, but she would find this an inward battle from this point forth. She stopped struggling, and her shoulders slumped. She knew what was to come.
"That's better. You understand, don't you, that we must take compensation. If the Kingdom cannot have taxes from you, it must have the means by which to generate those taxes. We woud... borrow ... your daughter Shalima from you. She will be of great service to the King."
He released her shoulders and stepped back. "There, it is said."
The room was silent for a few moments, a void by which only upset and anguish could be filled.
Instead, Nazdrak filled it with the question he knew would be the most difficult for them; where they would have to betray their own child, or suffer the consequences, which could only be severe. He had to remind himself that it would not be a betrayal, but a blessing, and that failure to comply would be the worse crime of betrayal of the King, and thus of all subjects within the Kingdom.
"Where is your daughter? We are here to collect her, so that she may start her new life in service to the Kingdom."
Both Szaranta and Cachamel were silent, both now had their eyes faced to the ground. They would not betray their daughter; they would betray their King.
"Cachamel. You must answer me. For your kingdom. Your daughter is honoured."
But Cachamel knew very well that her daughter's beauty was admired by many of the boys of her age, and unwelcomingly some men multiples of her age. It was not a huge leap of logic to infer the King's intention, who was a little more than a year older than her. Her long dancing hair, so dark it shone blue as it caught the sun's rays, and her striking tall, pale figure would turn heads before the affected would notice the beauty that accompanied the contrast.
So, to protect her daughter from one who had nobody but the gods to answe to, Cachamel lied.
"I do not know where my daughter is. But, it is true, she will feel honoured when she discovers her fate, as are we now. When she returns, for she is visiting relatives in Mayadabille, I will send her straight to you."
She looked Nazdrak in the eyes as she said this, trying desperately to make the look honest and not defiant, as she felt.
Nazdrak smile was fixed as Cachamel related this to him, and remained fixed.
He then turned his head briefly, and nodded to the two poised soldiers.
"No!" Cachamel screamed, and tried to break past Nazdrak to stop her family's only source of nourishment, but Nazdrak easily held her. She felt overwhelmed as she was enveloped by the swathes of black cloth. She could smell him - a clean smell, a hint of some herbal narcotic whose smoke had permeated the fabric, and something else she couldn't identify.
Szaranta panicked when he saw his wife struggling, and then suddenly calming as she became enclosed in Nazdrak's cloak.
He leapt forward to rescue her, assuming that she was being asphyxiated in some bizarre manner, and managed to pull her away before the third soldier got to him. He was shocked to see her eyes, which seemed to be focused on something otherworldly, a trace of a smile on her face indicating that that world was markedly better than this.
The clanging sound of their pot falling from its hooks, woke them from their momentary lapse, and they clung to each other and turned to see the last morsels of hope running into, and dowsing the fire, until only a few stray embers remained.
"How easily hope can be extinguished. It is equally easy to extinguish the lives of those that would betray, and lie to an ambassador of the King."
Nazdrak looked at Szaranta now. "Your daughter will not come to harm. She will be a guest of the King's. She will receive all the benefits of the Palace staff - she will be well-fed, well-educated, warm, and finely clothed. All the things you cannot possibly ... " he looked pointedly at the empty pot, " ... offer her."
He lent forward conspiratorially. "I know your plough broke some time back and you have been having to manually till your fields. I have come into possession of a three-furrow tiller which will amply comprensate you for any loss of labour. As a gesture of goodwill."
He could see Szaranta's eyes light up. "Cachamel, dear. We may be able to survive, but Shalima needs the best chance we can give her."
Cachamel drew sharply away from him, eyes ablaze with anger. "How could you even think that? You think our daughter's best chance in life is to be a whore for the King? Do you think that is all a woman is good for? Am I your whore?"
"N..No, I j..just mm..."
And at that moment, Nazdrak dropped to the floor, producing a hand-held crossbow from the depths of his garments. The three soldiers almost instantaneously positioned themselves in the room - one half-way up the stairwell, crouching, one to one side of the door, the other behind the table. Szaranta and Cachamel looked bewildered, left standing in the middle of the room. By the time they had an inkling what was happening, they were too late to prepare themselves. The front door burst inwards, and a number of men, scarves wrapped around their faces to obscure their identities, poured in with various weapons in their hands: Swords, daggers, some even cross-bows.
Few got more than a few yards, before behind felled by an opened neck or arrow-pierced chest. Within seconds, they were tripping over their felled comrades, becoming an easy target, and a further obstacle for those that followed.
With the first few arrows whistling close by them, Szaranta and Cachamel soon dropped to the floor themselves. Szaranta pulled his wife clear from the path of Nazdrak's cross-bow just in time, the arrow catching her sleeve and slicing the fabric cleanly. It was enough to deflect the arrow though, catching a blazing lantern on the wall, which fell, and exploded onto the floor, the fat that fed the flame causing it to fireball across the room.
Somebody shouted, "Retreat!", and no more bodies filled the room. However, the soldier nearest the door, who had felled at least six intruders, and whose upper torso, face and hands were sticky with sprayed blood, was left screaming, trying in vain to stamp out the fatted flames that now engulfed the bottom part of his body, and were working their way up. The flamed part of him met the bloodied part, and all who beheld, knew they were watching the morbidly manic dance of a dead man.
And then he was falling, heart pierced by a crossbow bolt. Nazdrak sighed, reloaded his weapon, and stood up, even as the soldier's body fell atop the stack of intruders, some of whom still cried, groaned, or gurgled for help they knew would not come. The flames soon took hold.
"Your daughter is upstairs, I assume?"
The two farmholders stared in stunned and sickened silence at the gruesome spectacle before them. It was Cachamel that reacted first.
"Shalima!"
Without hesitation, she leapt up the stairs, one eye on the screaming human bonfire, whose flames now engulfed the entire doorway, and were starting to lick at the painted wattle walls.
One of the two remaining soldiers followed her up, and witnessed her pushing against a wall at the end of the landing where no room should be. A rectangle opened up to reveal a small door, inside which was huddled a girl of teenage years with long golden-brown hair, and the most perfect-looking facial features one could hope to envisage. The only thing that spoiled these features was the bewildered fear that the young lady clearly showed. Her eyes flicked from the soldier to her mother to the flames that were starting to roll across the thatching from the walls towards them.
"Mother, what's happening? Are we to die?" It was unclear whether she was referring to the flames or the soldier.
Cachamel took her daughter's hand, and helped her from her sanctuary that could have been a tomb. "We will not die, do not fear, little Shem."
And she made her way downstairs, squeezing past the soldier who ushered them past, as they batted away embers of burning thatch that were starting to drift down around them, and battled against the choking smoke that was now pouring up the stairs from the raging fire below.
The soldier followed them down, half-shielding them from the embers. The searing heat had become almost intolerable. The soldiers chain mail was becoming so hot that it was starting to scald them.
"The front door is inpenetrable. If we can get out another way, now would be a good time to use it, " Nazdrak shouted to Szaranta, who looked wild-eyed with panic and uncertainty.
Nazdrak took him by his forearms and shook him. "Or we are all going to die here tonight."
Szaranta stared at him for a few seconds, shook his head as if to rearrange the machinery in his head, and then pulled away, nodding furiously.
"Yes, yes. Indeed. Needs must," he muttered almost inaudibly over the flames that were now starting to billow over their heads.
He led them to the far part of the room, and dragged a heavy-looking rocking-chair out of the way of a wall. One of the soldiers immediately helped him, and pulled it into the middle of the room, out of everybody's way.
Szaranta felt around the seemingly blank brick wall for something, and found it - a loose brick, which he pushed through with all his strength. It made a loud click when it was in about half-way. He turned around and shouted, "Now we must push as hard as we can."
Nazdrak and the unoccupied soldier braced their backs low against the wall, and dug their heels in to the floor, and pushed with all their strength. The soldier's lot was harder, as he also had to concentrate on trying not to scream as he pushed the searing mail harder into his back, as if punishing himself with self-inflicted torture.
The other soldier had finished dragging the chair out of the way, and was standing back to allow the men some room to complete their task. Eventually, the wall revealed enough of a gap around the sides to allow them to slip through, into darkness. First, Cachamel and Shalima, then Nazdrak and the soldier. Finally, the last soldier was left. But as Nazdrak looked back to beckon him in, the ceiling collapsed in, showering flaming timbers, wattle and debris over him, so that, over the crashing timbers and roaring flames, it was difficult to pick out the panicked screams before the man was crushed under the weight of burning wood.
Nazdrak withdrew. The flames were beginning to reach the impromptu escape route.
"There is a tunnel that leads away from the house. We will be safe once we are clear. Follow me."
Szaranta suddenly sounded in control. There was even a hint of authority in his voice that Nazdrak would not have associated with him.
They followed, descending some circling stone steps for a while, the flickering orange light behind them soon relenting to absolute darkness. The coldness was a relief after the flames, but soon chilled them.
They all followed Szaranta, trusting in his knowledge of the dark, dank tunnels, silent but for the breathing of the person each followed, and occasionally stumbled into.
They finally reached an opening, where their fumbling hands felt no walls. Their feet began splashing in shallow water, no more than an inch in depth.
"We are here, " said Szaranta.
They stopped, unsure of where 'here' was. They could hear a dull roaring sound nearby, and an extra chill in the air seemed to have found them.
"Sounds like the sea, " Nazdrak observed. "We must be dockside."
A flint-box sparked in the dark, the sudden noise like a thunderbolt in the relative quiet. Then again, and a torch spluttered into life.
"A little damp, " said Szaranta. "Yes, we are dockside of the city. Unfortunately, this is where we stay until the tide turns back out again. The pressure of the sea against the door from this chamber is what keeps it from flooding. It is the currents of the sea on the other side of the door that you can hear."
He used the torch to light other torches positioned around the perimeter of the cavern.
Nazdrak was fascinated by the cavern's contents. At one end were several barrels emanating a yeasty odour. At the other end, over what looked like a small alter, hung a painting of the gods Maazahalt and Mahazatal entwined, various unlit candles scattered nearby. In the middle of the cavern, there were ring-shaped stone steps that led to a pool of water, the surface perfectly still.
"Adriazel's Pool, " Szaranta explained, keeping Cachamel and Shalima close to him, as much for comfort as for mutual warmth. "Few know of its existence. Perhaps you would like to try it, Nazdrak. It has turned some men to madness, others to enlightenment."
Nazdrak looked intently at the surface of the water, as if this alone would reveal its secrets.
"I am a little cold for bathing, thank you. Tell me, has your son tried the pool?"
Cachamel answered this time. "No-one has bathed in the pool during our lifetimes. Who knows, perhaps it is just a pool of water. Perhaps the knowledge was for Adriazel alone."
"You've never been tempted to find out?"
"We have a Son, " Cachamel said proudly, "and a daughter. It is our responsibility to see they find their way well in this world."
Nazdrak stepped up on to the first step to the pool, Szaranta and Cachamel visible before him.
"Do you not think this knowledge will allow you to do this better?"
One step further. The black stillness of the pool seemed to beckon him. Nazdrak seemed to discern a distant singing, but tried to dismiss it.
"No. The pool teaches of truths of oneself, and those of beyond this world. What use is this to children making their way through a life in this world?"
Nazdrak took one more step, and found himself standing before the pool. He crouched down, and looked carefully at the surface. It was so still, he could believe it was solid. It didn't smell stale or salty. It seemed to have an almost impenetrable integrity.
However, the closer he got to the surface, the more it seemed to beckon him.
And then, "Sir. The girl. We must get her to the King."
Nazdrak snapped up straight, irrationally annoyed at the soldier, who was sitting on the ground, removing his mail to reveal red and blistered skin on his chest and back.
Then Nazdrak's face changed, pulled back from the puzzling trust he had somehow reached, back to the rigid conformity required of his King.
"Indeed. " Then quieter, he repeated. "Yes, indeed."
Nazdrak had found another pull to resist, another guilty wall to construct, so that he could faithfully serve his King, and more importantly, his Kingdom.
"Perhaps some Ale and some rest," Nazdrak sighed, walking resignedly back from the pool. "Ale and Magic is disallowed in our great Kingdom. The Ale I will ignore. The Pool also. For the Kingdom, I cannot ignore Shalima. She will return with us tomorrow, when the tide recedes."
"And our farm? Food? How are we to survive with no home? How are we to survive without our children?"
Nazdrak looked sadly at Cachamel. It was true that she would lose most.
"I am sorry, but this is how it must be. Perhaps if your friends had not been so eager to help... It takes so little to bring a person down."