An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  He didn’t have time to process that. Another arrow flew past his ear. He jumped over the side of the road and saw Burg standing a few feet away. “You!” he cried. He threw a shield-spell up in the air, knocking away two more arrows, and ran after Burg.

  Enosh caught up with Burg around the corner of the alley. “What is this supposed to be?” he snarled, shoving him up against the wall.

  “It’s not me,” Burg said. “The boy, he’s been gone all morning—” He tried to push Enosh back. “I need to see if Gira’s all right.”

  He didn’t allow Burg to move. “I’m done with this. You need to pay for all the years you’ve double-crossed me, you son of a bitch.”

  Burg’s face flushed. “I can’t believe this. After all these years, you’ve learned nothing, have you?”

  “I fail to see—”

  Burg struck him. As Enosh reeled from the shock of the impact, he felt Burg’s hands close in around his shirt collar. “You fail to see. I’ve been trying to offer help, yet you’ve accused me of treachery more times than I can count. Gira’s hurt because of you and the only thing you can think of is yourself!”

  “I don’t know Gira or anything about this convenient family you’ve built up for yourself, Burg.”

  “And Sapphire? Did it occur to you to worry about her?”

  He grabbed Burg’s hands. “We’re under attack.”

  “No,” Burg hissed. “You are.” He spat to the side and pushed Enosh to the street before turning another corner in the alley. Before Enosh could follow him, he felt a hand on his arm. Something heavy shattered against his cheek. As his senses began to swirl, he felt a sack dropped over his head, and then he saw nothing but darkness.

  Chapter Two

  “I wish I could tell you this was the first time I woke up tied to a bed,” Enosh said. He forced a grin and found himself grimacing instead, discovering that he had cracked a tooth. He spat blood to the side.

  From across the room, a woman chuckled. “A bed? Dear me, you are in for a big disappointment.” He felt someone tug at his blindfold.

  He looked down. “A torturer’s table is a disappointment? You don’t know me very well.” He looked up at his captor. “Although you should, given the circumstances. Dear wife, how long has it been?”

  Reema returned his smile. She had aged little since they had last seen each other, though the curves underneath her robes hinted at a more womanly figure. He felt his fingers give an involuntary twitch. “I must say,” he continued, her silence making him a little nervous. “If I knew this was how you liked it, perhaps I—”

  He felt a meaty fist—not hers—dig into his cheek. His head whipped to the side. Stars exploded in his vision. A moment later, he dared look up. A hooded figure leaned over him. “Though I’m not sure if I want a third party involved. No offense there, my friend, you’re just not my type—”

  The fist landed on his other cheek. He spat out more blood.

  “No more jokes,” Reema said.

  “Was that what we were doing? And there I thought we were having a moment. Right, then. What do you want, dear wife? There are better ways to get me back in bed than this.”

  “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” She smiled, running a finger along his chest before reaching up to grab his throat. He grimaced, feeling her nails digging into his skin. “What I want is simple, husband. You’ve neglected your duties for over seven years, now. It’s about time you fulfilled your end of the bargain.”

  “I told you—”

  Her nails dug a little deeper. “We require a sum. You are to decide the amount, keeping in mind what my father has already given up in offering assistance during your operations in Al-ir, besides losing the opportunity to hand his daughter off to another man to marry.”

  “...breathe…” Enosh gasped. Reema relaxed her grip. He coughed, drawing in a lungful of air. “You were the one who didn’t want to get married off to another,” he pointed out.

  Her smile grew cold. “I could tell my father you remain uncooperative.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, my lady. Even if I wanted to assist your family, I am not in the position to.”

  Reema nodded. Another fist smashed into his jaw. He swore.

  “Getting my head knocked out will not change a damn thing,” he managed to sputter out.

  She took a deep breath. “Amazing how your mouth can still work after all of that.”

  “If you’ll release me, I can show you a better use for it.”

  Her eyes hardened. Another fist, this time into his belly. His vision spun.

  “Stop,” he heard Reema murmur, after several more blows. “Leave him be for now. A few days without food should do wonders for his compliance.” She walked out. As the door shut behind her, he felt his bonds loosened, until he dropped to the floor. He reached out, intending to at least look at his tormentor in the eyes, but the pain proved more than he bargained for. He felt his senses slip.

  When Enosh woke up, he was still lying on the floor in a puddle of his own drool and blood.

  He turned his head, his muscles straining as he pushed himself up. He felt like he had just gone into a ring with a bull. He grabbed the edge of the table, where he had just been bound moments before, and smelled urine, among other things. He hoped it wasn’t his.

  The fact that he could still conjure a shred of humour gave him some strength. He looked around the room. There was a door and a bucket and nothing else. At least they gave him a bucket.

  He pulled himself back up on the table to lie on it, one arm curled under his throbbing head. This is the sort of thing people warn you about, he thought, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. You’re over thirty years old and yet you still haven’t figured out how to stop yourself from getting into these kinds of messes. And that really better be your own piss you’re lying on, because curling up on top of another person’s would just be too pathetic.

  Enosh groaned, turning to his side to stop the ebb of thoughts. He stared at his outstretched hand, caked with dried blood. He wondered if he should have tried to fight.

  And then gotten yourself killed? Please. I didn’t realize you’ve internalized Ke-if’s foolhardy philosophies.

  Enosh found it hilarious how it took being beaten half to death and imprisoned in a room with nothing better to do to make him think about his brother. He wasn’t sure why. Other than occasionally getting in the way and more frequently being useless, Kefier, as a child, hadn’t been the thorn in his side that he was as an adult. Their father used to ask him to consider Kefier’s feelings once in a while, but he always thought they were empty words. The man had not known how to deal with a second son after his wife’s death. His own demise, not long after, gave him no chance to rectify that.

  Now it was Kefier working with Gorrhen yn Garr while he lay on a torturer’s table waiting for what he was sure was going to be something unpleasant. Twist and turns. At least I still have the girl. The thought made him laugh as soon as it popped in his head. He actually didn’t know what he had. Sume had proven to be more of an enigma than he realized. Despite his attempts, she had kept herself from him for three years, which gave him a vague idea that what happened the night before he left had less to do with his wily charms than usual.

  What would Sume say right now? He’d spent half this trip debating with Sapphire about such things, which had started out in jest but which he was now starting to think may have to do with how that night had unravelled everything he thought about himself and his reactions. It was just one night. He’d had a lot of nights like it. Why did the significance of it mattered? Why did he care what she thought?

  What if she loved me?

  Enosh smirked. He knew that the girl she had been, back during their time here in Kalthekar, did. And why wouldn’t she? He had been the picture of gallantry and seduction, the best he had ever been in such circumstances. If the act had proven irresistible even to women with more experience in fending off suitors, then it was no
question that the effect would be significant to an untried girl falling in love for the first time.

  But that was over eight years ago. No charm, natural or agan-drawn otherwise, would’ve lasted that long. And Sume, for all that she had been a naïve merchant’s daughter when he met her, had known of his shortcomings for a long time. She had seen the women he waltzed into his room over the past three years. She must have even heard them. And she always greeted him with so much disdain after such activities you’d think he had murdered a kitten.

  He could still see her in his mind’s-eye, curled up in the crook of his arm with her cheek on his chest, which unsettled him further. She did not respond to him like the other women in his bed. There had been something that went beyond pleasure, a feeling of plunging into the depths of the ocean and not knowing where to go from there. It irritated him that he couldn’t grasp it. Did she know what she was doing? Did she understand the limitations of his understanding?

  He tried to focus on the present. None of it would matter if he didn’t get out of here alive. Sume would believe he abandoned her, and…

  The thought bothered him more than he had reason to believe it should.

  Enosh spent the next few hours concentrating on exercises to calm his mind, creating little ripples of agan around him. If nothing else, the action took away the sting of his wounds and bruises. He didn’t know how long he sat there for. When the door opened, he caught a flash of sunlight, so it must’ve been at least a day.

  Reema looked at him with a mixture of surprise and relief. She caught that just in time. “Are you ready to cooperate?” she asked, the grim expression returning to her face.

  “It depends on what you mean by that,” he said. He cocked his head. “You’re not very used to this, are you?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “This. Torturing someone. Leaving them enough time to think and heal.” He shook his head and dared to take a step towards her. When she didn’t react, he took another, until he was close enough to reach out for her.

  She recoiled, but not nearly enough for him to stop. His fingers brushed against her cheek. “You were a little braver when you’re not alone with me,” he said, chuckling.

  Her cheeks burned, but she continued to stare at him defiantly. “You are unbelievable,” she hissed.

  “Oh, I know I am,” he said. “But what’s even more unbelievable is that you didn’t take your henchman with you.” He reached down to graze his teeth along her collarbone. “That to me either says that you are not as intelligent as you’d like me to believe, or…” He flicked his tongue across her skin. “You want to tell me something else.”

  He caught sight of the goosebumps in her skin before she turned around to slap him. He caught her wrist in his hand. “You cocky son of a bitch,” Reema snarled as he pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his.

  She struggled, and he forced her to the wall, his tongue pushing her lips apart. The taste of her blinded him. He groaned as he pushed his arousal against her. A moment later, he felt her hands sliding down his backside as she began to kiss him back.

  His hands raced along the smooth skin on her hips, her belly, and her breasts, furious with a hunger he knew went beyond the charm spell he had cast. She didn’t say anything when he unbuckled his pants and thrust himself into her, uttered nothing but a low moan that didn’t help his case at all.

  When they were done, he let her push him away, panting. He fell to the floor and laughed. She drew her clothes back on, cold rage in her eyes, and left with as much dignity as she could muster. The door slammed shut.

  The days that followed became a lesson in thinking twice before deciding to piss women off.

  Nobody came to give him food or water for two days. When they eventually appeared, they only gave him water from a dirty pail that smelled like stables and two pieces of stale lentil bread. He consumed every morsel before asking for sauce; for his impertinence, they smashed him around some more.

  The third day, they gave him more water—an entire barrel of it, which they poured over his face after covering it with a piece of oilcloth while he was shackled once more to the table. Three years in the royal dungeons had taught him how to shut his brain and focus only on surviving the next moment. He hoped his torturers were impressed.

  They did not feed him again until the fifth day.

  On the sixth day, he asked to speak with Reema. The men looked at each other before walking right back out. It was another day or so before they returned.

  By then, the hunger and exhaustion had gripped Enosh so hard that he was almost sure he would’ve signed over all of his estates to the bitch just for a decent meal. That thought disappeared as soon as they dragged him out into the open. Sunlight exploded around him, and he saw a garden that did not look at all like Lord Azchai’s. He wondered if they were even in Barun.

  He was dragged into a room and left there. He glanced at the silk furnishings and cushions, a stark contrast against his soiled clothing, before sitting down. There was small pleasure in the idea that Reema’s servants were going to spend time taking the stench out of the fabrics.

  “You’ll have to forgive me for not getting up,” he said when the door opened. “I’ve got a terrible ache in my knees. Sleeping on a hard floor does that to you.” Reema appeared. “You look lovely, my darling,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She slapped him, succeeding this time. He smiled and pressed his hand against his cheek. “Perhaps our last encounter was not to your liking. I could’ve sworn differently, but perhaps I misheard. Give me another chance.”

  “You,” she said, pointing. “Be quiet.” She clapped once.

  Makin entered. He was holding a young boy with one hand. “Sit here,” he told the child, before looking up at Enosh. “Ferral,” he said. “You look like shit.”

  “No thanks to you,” Enosh replied coldly, though his eyes were on the boy. He was a small, thin child, with deep brown hair and dark skin that appeared sallow in parts, as if he had been kept away from the sun for too long. He looked around the room first before fixing Enosh with a gaze that startled him in its intensity. This was very likely his son. What was an appropriate response?

  “Understand, Ferral,” Makin said, holding his arms out. “You were uncooperative. The lady and her family have been most...displeased...with your actions. We sent letters. Many letters. You ignored each and every one of them.”

  “Did I? My secretary must’ve neglected to inform me. I’ve been terribly busy, you see—you can’t even see the surface of my desk these days.” He gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “This is not how you treat family, Ferral,” Makin said, shaking his head.

  “This is not how you treat friends, either,” Enosh said evenly. He glanced at Reema. “I have reason to believe that I was set up for Zilfikar’s death. Might either of you have anything to do with that? I’m just asking, you understand.”

  Reema opened her mouth. “A complication,” Makin said, before she could say anything. “One you need not worry yourself about.”

  “I see,” he said. He felt the surface of his right hand begin to get hot. He wondered if he should kill Reema or Makin; it was unlikely for him to get both before the guards run him through.

  The child made a sound. Reema crossed the room to lay her head on his head. “I want you to meet someone,” she said. Enosh couldn’t tell if she was speaking to the boy or to him. “His name is Meiran,” she continued, pulling the boy to the side. Her eyes blazed.

  She married Hertra Ferral, Enosh thought, feeling his mouth dry up. Not Enosh Tar’elian. How did she know? The surprise must’ve shown in his eyes, because she suddenly laughed. “My, how the tables have turned. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Prince of Gorent? Barun has more resources at its disposal than you realize.”

  “So you do,” he said, struggling to keep his wits about him. “What need would you have of me, then?”

  “Information does not equal to fu
nds,” she said. She placed her spidery hands over the boy’s face, cradling him in a mock show of protectiveness. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked. “Smooth, amber skin, not a flaw on him.”

  “What are you doing?” Enosh now couldn’t control the rage from rising in his voice.

  “Nothing,” she said, smiling. “Yet.” She blew a lock of Meiran’s brown hair away from his face. “He is perfect, isn’t he? And agan-touched. A gift that would’ve earned him a spot with the mandraagars, except I don’t think you would’ve liked that.”

  “You kept him away from them so that you could use him against me?” Enosh snorted. “You mustn’t know me very well. I’m not fond of children.”

  She dug her nails into the boy’s jaw, mimicking what she had done to him on that first day. By instinct, he stepped forward, but two guards came up, drawing their spears to block him. He saw Reema pull out a dagger. “You continue to vex me,” Reema said, sliding the edge of the blade across the child’s cheek.

  “That’s your son, you bitch,” he snapped.

  “Yours, too. Undeniably so. Shhh, don’t move, little one.” The boy whimpered as the blade slid closer to his neck.

  “K’an Azchai would see the boy dead if he had his way,” Makin blurted out. “Cooperate, Ferral. This isn’t…”

  “Makin,” Reema hissed. “Silence!”

  Makin stepped back, his lip quivering.

  “You won’t hurt him,” Enosh said.

  Reema’s eyes bore into him. “Do you want to see me try?”

  “Not particularly,” Enosh said. He held his hand out. “Let him go, Reema. Let’s talk sensibly.”

  She released the boy almost too quickly, allowing him to run back to Makin. “An-albaht help us,” Makin murmured, drawing the boy away from the room. “Take him away from here,” he barked at one of the guards. He turned to Reema. “My lady, do not tell me we have sunk to this.”

  “We have,” she said. “A long time ago.”