The Horrid Tragedy of the Counts Berok: A Comedy Fantasy

by Galen Wolf

  "Zventi," said the Countess. "Will you promise that if you see that man again you'll run away at once and come straight to tell us?"

  "Yes, mummy," concurred the much subdued Zventibold as he sat in his pajamas in front of the roaring fire, sipping his warm milk.

  "Good boy," said his uncle. "Now go and see daddy and wish him good night on your way to bed."

  The little boy rose, bidding good night to the two adults and left the room. The maid, who hovered by the door, was dismissed as she always was when Uncle Zildak called. Minutes later, they heard a scream as the frenzied Count tried to kill his small son who had popped in to say good night. Luckily Zamborg was tied down and Zventibold came to no harm.

  Zildak reached over and took Helena in his arms. "By Hector, Helena, you're more beautiful than when we first met at your wedding."

  "That wasn't technically the first time we met, but I know you like your little joke." Her eyes smoldered. "Come to me, Zildak, darling," gasped the Countess, her eyes already wide with desire and her sheer negligee open to reveal the shadowy majesty of her milk white breasts. Zildak moved until he could kneel and take those rounded, heavy glories in his hand. He kneaded them; he caressed them, until, finally, he reached down with his lips to engulf one of the strawberry red, turgid nipples - an act which brought a low moan from the Countess's half open lips.

  Zildak lay upon her and she reached for his hard length which pressed into her soft belly - solid as a pole.

  "This is what I miss, Zildak - this!" and she squeezed it making him all the more frantic in his suckings and bitings of her huge spit slicked knockers.

  She gasped. "If he found out, Zildak, you know he'd maybe kill us both. You know that. Maybe." Her conversation stopped however as Zildak's hand found the hot musky wetness that, through a pungent hairiness, hid a cavern of delights for him.

  "Yes Zildak! Yes…!!! Oooooh…!!! Aaaaah…!!!. Yes, oh Zildak! Do it now. Yes, suck it! Like that…!!! Harder! More! Aaaah…!!! Oooooohh…! Faster! Twist that bit the other way round! You know how I like the hoochie-coochie polka."

  Their feverish thrusting and counter thrusting bodies, which had in their excitement fallen off the couch, were disturbed by a low cough and the creak of a leather shawl. They looked up, red faced from more than embarrassment. Helena brushed the sweaty hair out of her eyes. "Yes nanny, what is it?" she said trying to control the movement of her naked pelvis which in its undulating pushings and grindings against the settee was causing her a substantial amount of embarrassment.

  "I just wondered if you wanted anything, mis'ress," came the rough voice of the old crone whose eyes were fixed on the now wilted member of Zildak Berok. Zildak himself answered. "No, there isn't nanny. So you may go."

  Rather than take her leave, the hag extended her hand. Zildak withdrew - a look of disgust on his noble face. "Go away with you, you diseased old crone!" he snarled.

  The Countess, who understood Nanny's desires rather better, unclasped the gold necklace from around her shapely neck and gave it to the old woman. A strange gleam shone in Nanny's eyes and cackling gleefully, she turned and went out of the door, shutting it firmly behind her.

  In a hovel in the Wizard's Quarter of Piraktesh, Turvius Sullius sat crouched over a bench. Between his gnarled hands he held a crystal ball and all things - the tormented screams of Zamborg Berok - the frantic lovemaking of his wife and brother - the silent sleeping Zventibold - yea! All things in the Palace Berok were known to him. As he watched he sniggered to himself and reached for a walnut from the bowl by his right hand.

  5. The Fleeting Years.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Zventibold grew from a toddler into a boy. How did they know? - He stopped toddling; he became steadier on his feet and that was taken as sufficient proof of the end of his toddlerhood. In those early years his life was blissful. He was cradled in love from dawn to dusk and wanted for nothing. He had the freedom of the whole Palace and he would run about teasing the servants, one of whom - William the Doorman - soon became his fast friend. Alas, those golden days soon vanished and the time came when Zventibold was admitted to Dr Drok's Academy for Young Gentlemen. He was to be directly under the tender care of the wizened Dr Drok.

  That first day he dressed in his woolen school blazer and shorts and, although he complained that they were itchy and unpleasant to wear neither his mother nor his father would allow him to remove them, and roam naked as had been his wont in the Palace Berok. "You've grown too big," was all his mother said. This was his first taste of discipline.

  He stood with his mother and father in front of the wrought iron gates of the Academy while the wind whistled around his undergarments and he wailed at the injustice of the world.

  The Headmaster, the aforementioned Drok, by dignity and learning titled doctor, came to meet them. When he saw Zventibold he smiled, for he was indeed a kindly old gentleman and a devotee of wholefood vegetarianism - which differs from normal vegetarianism in that you must eat the whole of any plant at one sitting: he had learned to avoid cabbages. Drok was a tall man with a large bony nose and a black hat. As he stepped towards them he extended his gnarled hand in greeting. Zamborg, having quite forgotten the manners of all but the very lower classes quickly handed him a sovereign. At first Dr Drok was so embarrassed that he did not know what to do, but then he decided to take the coin with good grace and thrust it into one of his cotton pockets - made by the labour of slaves with guaranteed working conditions. Drok cleared his throat, and at that same time was astounded at the great beauty of the Countess and wondered if the stories told about her by some of the low dockers and worst types of sailor were true. She certainly was a woman of arresting appearance. The same could not be said of the Count - he had lost the ramrod straight back of his youth and was looking wearied by his responsibilities to humankind.

  "I'm very pleased to meet you Count Berok," said Drok. "Though of course I am a fan of your great humanitarian work." He turned to the Countess and the boy Zventibold. "And this must be your lovely wife, the Countess Helena. Enchanted Madame, I kiss your hand lovely lady, et cetera and so forth." Helena blushed looking away, not knowing what he was talking about for she had not studied foreign languages. She realised Drok was a master of the tongue and pondered whether speaking was all it could do. She flushed at the mental image, but she found her courage and spoke, "Yes, Dr Drok. And this is the boy child whom we have brought to be schooled in your esteemed Academy." She gestured toward the small Zventibold who was attempting to eat a beetle that had crawled over his shoe.

  "And what is the boy's name Count?" Enquired Dr Drok, bemused by the boy's action.

  "We have called him Zventibold."

  "An unusual name," mused the Doctor.

  "Unusual times, Dr Drok," said Zamborg.

  Helena could not stomach Drok's slur - it was she who had chosen the name after all. "Not quite as curious as your own perhaps Dr Drok," she said. All knew that Drok was embarrassed about his name and even Zamborg felt his wife had perhaps overstepped the bounds of courtesy. Quickly, he changed the subject. "Perhaps we could go inside and settle things in the comfort of your office?"

  Dr Drok showed them the way to his study through corridors upon which the silence of academia lay heavy. Drok showed them in and beckoned for them to sit down. The study was a dim little room lined with shelves of dusty books. A small fire burned in the dirty grate. Drok offered them carrot juice with a choice of bran dressings and garnishes. All refused.

  Zamborg came straight to the point. "I have heard, Dr Drok, that this is a radical school and that you have such progressive courses as Peace Studies and Class Struggle."

  "All of this is true, good Count, and we shall endeavour to bring up your son with the ideals of a true liberal."

  Zamborg looked over at Helena and both smiled. "This is how we would wish it of course Dr Drok. Entirely to our satisfaction."

  At this point Zventibold began to weep freely - the beetle was trying to crawl back up his throat.
Dr Drok looked concerned. "I hope that this boy - this Zventibold…"

  "Aye," said the Count, "that is his name Drok - mark it well."

  "As I was saying, dearest Count, I hope the child does not take it upon himself to pass water here."

  Helena looked bewildered. She did not understand. Count Berok himself frowned deeply - his brow lined with thunder. "What exactly are you inferring Dr Drok?"

  "I infer nothing Count, though I may imply it," said the dusty academic in pedantic fashion. "However, I note from empirical observation that many of the aristocracy have great trouble controlling their yellow water." Drok was suddenly embarrassed. He wished he was dictating notes to Martha his personal secretary instead of indulging in verbal fencing with the great Count Zamborg Berok.

  "Their water!" Zamborg stood.

  Helena tried to calm him. "Yes, dear - you know."

  "I most certainly do not!"

  "You you do - water. Not water really though."

  "Speak sense woman!" For once the Count forgot his feminism. He fixed the doctor with his smoldering eyes. It was fits of passion like this that had attracted Helena at the beginning, despite later disappointments. Dr Drok broke the tension by leading little Zventibold to the waste paper basket where the child spat out the offending insect. Zamborg calmed down at once - impressed with the Doctor's gift with children.

  "Really Count, I didn't mean to offend," said the academic.

  As they turned to go, Helena wiped a tear from her eye as she watched her small son walk through the tall door out of the Doctor's study. He was a member of the Academy now. She called after him, "Zventi, see you tonight. Uncle Zildak's here again. He'll make you your favourite - tomato soup!"

  More years went by and Zildak made soups and sometimes soufflés for the whole family - for cooking was his hobby and economic recession had forced the Beroks to cut down on domestic staff. Helena did not seem to age at all but those same years weighed heavily on the shoulders of her husband - the Count Berok. Relationships between him and the Autocrat - the wicked Axtos III - had never been as bad. But for all that, Zventibold enjoyed his time at the Academy and was unaware of his father's troubles. Zventibold's habits grew stranger and stranger until the only boy who would be his friend was the deformed Billy Mosser - son of a local tradesman who had made good in the saltpeter business. They had known each other as infants - rolling round in the dung together and Countess Helena had warned Zventibold off Billy, but they were two of a kind and Zventibold could not keep away from him. Billy smelled rather and the Countess would not allow him in the Palace. She worried about his influence on Zventibold and, though she could give no rational explanation why, it preyed on her mind. One thing gave her grounds for joy about Zventibold - the wicked sorcerer Turvius Sullius had not been seen again. Perhaps he was dead - perhaps far away, but in any case her Zventibold was safe from his foul influence.

  The months of later winter and early spring had been good ones for Zamborg. The weather was mild and he had recently had a letter published in the Pirakteshi Gazette. As he walked down by the might River Szerkia this day, he was pleased - pleased that his son was doing well at school, pleased that his brother and wife got on so well together - one would think that those two were husband and wife and he the brother-in-law, he chuckled to himself - the way they were always together.

  At the same time that Zamborg was enjoying his walk, Zventibold Berok and Billy Mosser were standing in the study of Dr Drok where they had been summoned by the irate headmaster. Drok sat behind his desk and to the boys' dismay gestured to something that lay on one of the chairs by the desk. It smelled horribly and appeared to glow faintly in the dim light. It was a dismembered human arm.

  "Who is responsible for this?" asked Drok - his voice trembling with rage. He got up and beat chalk dust from his robe. "No, don't pretend Mosser. You've been seen at public executions with your gruesome little basket. Do you have anything to say for yourself lad?"

  Billy stood there with his hands behind his back. He shifted from foot to foot. He was obviously trying not to laugh. Drok turned to Zventibold. "And you Berok? I must say that I expected more from you. You come from a good family - a family devoted to ideals of truth, honour and justice. Do you not think that this poor wretch suffered enough in life? Eh? Did you have to make a mockery of him even in death? An effigy?" The Doctor paced up and down. Billy sniggered. The Doctor turned on his heel and put his face up to Billy's - enduring the strong odour of saltpeter. "Do you have anything to say in your defence, boy?"

  "Well," said Billy, "we did try to feed him but it ran out of the hole in his cheek."

  The Doctor staggered back, his hand reaching for his failing heart. "Hector preserve us!" he exclaimed.

  Billy Mosser, although he was not good at lessons, saw that he now had the upper hand. He reached into his pocket. "I've got a bit more of him here, Sir. I was saving it."

  This was all too much for the good Doctor and he fell, knocking over a chair and landing face down on the floor. Billy ran over to him and made sure he was dead. He smiled. "We've got fresh bits now Zventi, get hold of his leg."

  Zventibold was bewildered - he figured this was not right or just, but he didn't know. They had never mentioned this in either Class Struggle or Peasant Economics lessons.

  Billy snapped again, "Come on Zventi, get hold of his leg!"

  Zventibold was bowled over by Billy's powers of organisation. He could only do as Billy bade him.

  Halfway down the corridor, Billy turned, "Don't forget to get some more thread from your mother's basket," he said.

  It did not take long before some of the masters noticed that Dr Drok was missing. A locker room inspection found the unfortunate Doctor's head with someone else's lips crudely attached with orange thread.

  There was a massive scandal and both Zventibold and Billy were expelled from the Academy. Zamborg was deeply shocked, although it was obvious that Zventibold had been under the malign influence of Billy, this did not excuse him from his part in the terrible happenings at the Academy. He considered home schooling, but due to his other commitments was unable to organise it as he hoped.

  Now that Zventibold and Billy were without a school to go to, they took recourse to many things to fill their time. One of these was egg collecting. One particular day Billy and Zventibold went out hunting for nests. In the course of their search they wandered far from areas that were known to them, and now as evening was falling, they found themselves in the Wizards' Quarter. Here, the roofs were uneven and sharply angled. The boys were lost, but neither this, nor their perilous situation, clinging like wombats to the slate roofs, could dampen Zventibold's wild enthusiasm for eggs. And here, in the Wizards' Quarter, he caught a whiff of something he had never experienced - the roofs, the gutters; the very sky spoke of adventure. Here and there in the gathering gloom, strange lights and rumblings would spill from the strange houses into the strange narrow streets below them. The more Zventibold got excited, the more Billy became nervous. Although he was a playground warrior - a schoolyard Achilles - he stood shaking and blubbering - he was a broken child. Billy reached into the nearest gutter for a dummy substitute. The only thing he could find was a dead crow which he proceeded to stuff into his mouth. Zventibold was at first shocked. He didn't know how to take his erstwhile leader's downfall - Billy who always had an answer - Billy who always had a plan. Now Billy stood revealed to Zventibold as a craven child. Billy had been the one who had always said that weakness was to be crushed and that the strong should take from the weak. Zventibold was so disgusted that he determined to leave Billy and stepped resolutely away across the tiles. Billy, seeing his departure, extended and imploring hand, "Zventi, please, friend, companion, don't leave me. Oh Zventi, please, I'll give you anything."

  Zventibold kept walking, ignoring the broken Billy's wails and when he was about fifty yards away, he turned and said, "There is now nothing that you could give me that I could not take from you. So, weakling, our friends
hip is over." When he had said this he ran on over the roofs, leaping like a mountain goat through the semi-darkness. On he ran for minutes until he was loster than he previously had been. But this daunted him not, for he reveled in his new found independence. It was at that moment he slipped and his foot went through the tiles. As he struggled, aghast at his misfortune, the hole grew larger until at last he fell in a shower of broken roofwork.

  He was stunned at first and more than a little dusty, but as his head stopped spinning he managed to take in his surroundings and found that he was in a room, and a strange one at that.

  A deep, calm voice greeted him. "Good evening Zventibold, I've been expecting you," it said.

  The youth stood up, his heart thumping. Apart from the twilight coming in at the hole in the roof, the room's only illumination was from the eerie flickering of a Bunsen burner. Strange shadows writhed just past the corners of his vision.

  The voice spoke again without Zventibold managing to locate from whence it came. "We can save formal introductions until later, but until then, you may call me Turvius."

  Then Zventibold saw him. He was a small man with a hunchback. Some would have called him a dwarf. He stood there by the twisting flame of the burner, and he was smiling. Zventibold looked at him again. He was sure that he recognised him from somewhere.

  Turvius Sullius spoke again, "Oh yes, Zventibold, I'm sure you recognise me - you should do. I've watched you grow. Waited until you were ready. Prepared for this day. Do you seriously think that the things that have guided you to me have been accidents?" He turned and ordered someone who was still in the darkness to come forth. At his words a shape moved into the light. It was Billy.