Uricon,
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"Mercy, he said?"
The man nodded quickly. "Yes. Thatswhathesaid."
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."
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, I think this appropriate compensation."
Behind him, Jerud heard the man allow a little gasp of air to escape. Was it trepidation of the task, or relief for evading blame 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 you 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 to never take any 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 was sitting to the right of the throne, legs curled around a mess of paper shreddings like a bird feathering his nest. He paused briefly, the interruption catching him on some subliminal level, but continued almost immediately subdividing the paper to individual letters, which 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 to a city famed for its moral and artistic prowess.
Each tick Jerud's list wiped an irreplaceable attribute from the city - the destruction of the cathedral rocked its religion; The searing flames in the universal library cut short education and history. The quieting of the nursery removed a whole new generation of Tuxingens; The parliamentarians no longer possessed throats nor hands to guide the democratic process.
The young mens' castration destroyed the hopes of the upcoming generation; The young womens' violation 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.
In summary, Tuxingo as a city was systematically stripped of its soul.
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 seemed to be a swirl of symbols, organized not randomly, but in an indeterminable pattern holding infinite possibilities for the boy, however much he dissected and rearranged them. Every new arrangement seemed to open further permutations, none of which ever seemed quite the same.
Jerud leant over the boy. "What have we today, my boy? A tangle of words - a fitting testament to the tangle that dear Philner's fine words have made of 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 arranging, then suddenly pulled a handful from the pile of paper fragments. He immediately started arranging them before him, one word per radial arm, spiralling out from a centre. He paused only to nudge letters to make them follow the equidistant solar-style curls, 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 own-styled perfection.
The words, though, had angered Horbin. They were not neat. They did not follow an obvious 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 my eyes, such that no other subject can fulfil. "
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's arrangings.
- * -
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 Silakey, 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 lavished on it.
Unfortunate that on a night prior to the final game between Grenzall and his city, Minovar, ten years before, he had allowed himself to be made drunk by a willing beauty, who led him back to a desolate alley, where she was replaced by the shadows of three 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 were vanquished 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 likely have taken a differing 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 probable 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 eyes for 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. Treachery was something applied to others who would be foolish enough to oppose the will and purpose of the kingdom. Nazdrak himself would be unable to explain his fierce allegiance to the king. To him, this was simply an intrinsic part of his person, and needed no questioning. Such internal dialogue seemed irrelevant and gratuitous.
Some critics 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 city 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 can achieve power and greatness irrespective of the events of one's life. Still others saw him as a mere puppet of the King, unable to find greatness in himself, although these people were unlikely to voice their opinions publically.
At such times of conflicting opinions, Nazdrak had to expend a great deal of his energy on 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 this 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. Around him, there always followed 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 more often the bearer or bad tidings. The D'Alaiel family had already lost their only son, although many who knew them, secretly thought this a blessing on the family. Horbin was not very communicative.
The Family's troubles started when Nazdrak, through is network of information-gatherers, heard about the father's uncanny ability to predict the correct sowing, reaping and appropriate crop positions each year. This gave them and their friends a consistently excellent yield - a potential source of knowledge that, scaled-up, could be beneficial to the whole Kingdom.
However, it was soon apparent that the father could give no clear idea of how this information was gained. Those that knew the family revealed that his strange and reclusive son seemed to have a presence of knowledge that was difficult to extract or predict, but which has father seemed to be attuned to with respect to the crops. The father was understandably reluctant to admit his son as being the source of his remarkable feats of agriculture, and his son even less willing to communicate in any form.
Nazdrak finally insisted the boy return with him to the King's intrigued court for a period of time to determine if his skills were valid or usable. 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 or omen. 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 finally honest about the feelings that the experience had imparted to them, they agreed that they both had a sense of impending doom.
As Nazdrak 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 visible, 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 required maintenance.
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 an overflowing, but nonetheless 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, framed by bundles of tied herbs that hung from the ceiling. 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-delights.
"I am certain that the King would be delighted 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 a vaguely dramatic wave, "... Or somesuch?"
The man shook his head. "No. Business has not been good in recent times. When times become harder, people are less able to afford tending to their health. Ironically, that is how epidemics start, and then there's not enough of me to go around." He smiled wryly. "Madness, don't you agree? All down to the crops failing, and the resources required to sustain the war effort... And Szaranta's predictions were as thin on the ground as his crops, I gather." The smile dropped. "That will be why you wish to... speak with him. Am I right?"
Nazdrak had been waiting impassively whilst the man was giving his eloquent 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.
Almost immediately after the herbalist had completed imparting his opinions, the door to the shop opened, and the soldier that Nazdrak 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 those practiced in 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 is 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 our meeting, and your words. Herbalist."
And he was in the gusting wind again, drawing his black cloak around him, eddies sending his hair cascading. He again looked a dramatic figure, but for his face, which to a careful observer, would seem 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 not just due to his natural size of frame, but also a consequence of frugal circumstances.
The guard brought 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 his mail to clatter against his removed helmet. "No, Sir. When he realised that we were pursuing 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 vanished immediately upon our approached."
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 some of the King's commands 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 shaking, their hooves impatiently scratching at the ground.
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 a child would have been as unlikely to obscure the soldier's view.
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 he 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 deemed 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 contrast was formidable.
"Mahzidral, my beautiful, " he whispered in her ear once he was astride her. And with that, no kick nor rein 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 fast-approaching, the sky was beginning to darken. Nazdrak did not hold the customary fear of night. In many ways he appreciated 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 much easier target under the cover of darkness.
"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 the most expedient means in which to promptly conclude the visit in fruition.
The soldiers dismounted, Szaranta deposited first. He made no attempt at escape. He understood too well the fruitlessness of such an action.
"Szaranta, would you show us into your home. We would be delighted to meet your family," as Nazdrak himself dismounted.
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 inevitable loss. 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, and paused to wipe the tears from his grimy face with his sleeve, and to compose himself. He entered.
Three of the soldiers followed him, then Nazdrak to finalize the delegation. Several other guards dispersed about the exterior boundaries of the farmyard in case of any unplanned 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 through 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, and particularly 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. It seemed to life the atmosphere to something that seemed elevated slightly above reality.
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, and possibly... " he paused to evaluate the married couples' reaction... "to lift one awareness above the normal... A potent combination."
"It sustains us, " Cachamel said gruffly.
Nazdrak indicated to two of the three soldiers that had accompanied him into the house, who came forward, ready for the 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 the final confirmation.
"They are obedient, as am I to the King. However, we are none of us mechanizations. 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 other ways."
Cachamel interruped, quietly, though the fury was clear in the harmonics. "We have paid, every day, for the return 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 high-quality crops and large yield that could only survive perfect conditions. Had we only known that your damned King would steal our son away - our whole crop is ruined. So nearly, are we. How say you, servant of the cause our misery?"
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 betrayal in 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 is 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 would... 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 to 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 daughter... Her long dancing hair, so dark it shone blue as it caught the sun's rays, and her striking tall, pale figure that turned 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 answer 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 befitted her true feelings.
Nazdrak smile was fixed as Cachamel related this to him, and remained fixed afterwards.
He then turned his head briefly, and nodded to the two poised soldiers.
Szaranta, quicker than his seemingly spent frame would seem to realistically allow, darted towards the stairs, spurred into action by the finality of the situation.
"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, improbably calmed 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 free before the third soldier could get 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 may have been markedly better than this.
The clanging sound of their pot falling from its hooks, woke them from their momentary victory, and they clung to each other, turning to see the last morsels of resolve 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." His voice seemed to take on a soothing resonance now. "She will receive all the benefits of the Palace staff - she will be well-fed, well-educated; kept 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 to 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 of 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 felled by an opened neck or arrow-pierced chest. Within seconds, they were tripping over their dying comrades, becoming an easy target, and a further obstacle for those that followed.
With the first few arrows whisking frighteningly close to 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 flailing sleeve and slicing the fabric cleanly. It was enough to deflect the arrow a few degrees, 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!", which stemmed the accumulation of bodies filling 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 upwards. The flamed part of him met the bloodied part, and all who beheld, knew they were watching the morbidly manic thrashings of a dead man.
And then he himself was felled, 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 to finalize their passing.
"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, and witnessed her pushing against a wall at the end of the landing where no room seemed to be. A rectangle opened up to reveal a small door, behind 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 false sanctuary that could have been her 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, battling 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 escape another way, now would be a good time for it to be revealed, " Nazdrak shouted to Szaranta, who looked wild-eyed with panic and uncertainty.
Nazdrak took him by his shoulders and shook him. "Or we are all to die here tonight, like those you see burning before you."
Szaranta stared at him for a few seconds, shook his head as if to rearrange the thoughts 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 from beside a wall. One of the soldiers immediately rushed to his aid, and pulled it to 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, pushing 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, showering flaming timbers, wattle and debris 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 controlled. There was even a hint of authority in his voice that Nazdrak would not have though to associate with him.
They followed, descending some circling stone steps a while, the flickering orange light behind them soon relenting to absolute darkness. The cold was a relief after the flames, but soon chilled them.
They all followed Szaranta, trusting 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 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 from which emanated 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 circular 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 have 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 by 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. The truth was that she would lose the most.
"I am sorry, but this is how it must be. Perhaps if your friends had not been so eager to help... Their rash actions have brought you down to this. It takes so little..."
"Today, I go hunting," Jerud proclaimed.
One or two courtiers had to stifle groans. Jerud's hunting disabilities were reknowed throughout the Kingdom. The little noises, and unprecedented quantities of little disguised coughs that followed did not go unnoticed.
"Did you hear that, Horbin?" Jerud commented to the boy, who was still sitting in the same position to the right of the throne, staring down intently at the mass of letters cradled in the floor-space that existed between his crossed legs. He did not seem to register the King's presence, least of all his question. "They doubt my hunting prowess. What loyal subjects!"
He scanned the room, each subject's eyes looking to the floor as the King's roving gaze passed over them.
"Yes, such faith. However the hunt is not for a lithe animal that is cunning to the hunting arrow, but rather a missing subject, who was to acquire a further subject for my attentions. Nazdrak, I believe, has betrayed me.