Conflict

by Pedro Urvi

  The Generals burst into protests and exclamations.

  Count Volgren ordered: “Silence!”

  Odir and Olagson were arguing on their feet amid insults and accusations, clearly unhappy with the news. Rangulfsen complained of the lack of information needed to reach a valid conclusion. As was the habit in Norghanian arguments, everything was said amid shouts, insults and colorful language, at a steadily increasing volume level.

  “I said silence!” the Count demanded.

  The three Generals quieted down.

  Looking first at the Assassin, then at Lasgol, he asked: “How certain are you about this, Ranger?”

  “I’m totally convinced, Sir. He confessed to it himself. He doesn’t work for Rogdon. Another agent ordered the murder of the King’s brother, but it wasn’t the blue and silver kingdom. I guess the murder was looking precisely to provoke an armed conflict between the two kingdoms. We must prevent this war, Sir, it’s unjustified. The Assassin is the proof.”

  “Bah, humbug! We can’t trust this vermin. He’d say anything to save his skin,” said Odir, spitting on the floor. “It was the Rogdonians, and nothing will convince me otherwise.”

  “Although I don’t like to admit it, I agree with Odir,” cried Olagson. “This foreigner would sell his own mother to save his neck. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire…It was Rogdon. They must pay for it in blood.”

  “The thing is,” Rangulfsen mused, “that if we consider it carefully, it’s too obvious an attack, with clues that are far too incriminating, pointing in one direction only: west. I’d say it’s possible that there’s more to this plot than meets the eye.”

  “I can assure you it wasn’t Rogdon. Someone wants us to believe it was, in order to start a war that will cost both our kingdoms thousands of lives, a war without any reason.”

  “If what you say is true, Ranger, and I’m not saying it is, then everything would point at the Nocean Empire,” said the Count. “They are the clear beneficiaries of a war between Rogdon and Norghana.”

  “Or the Confederation of Free Cities of the East,” suggested Rangulfsen. “They’re a new power, and they might be looking to strengthen their position.”

  “Rogdonian mount, Rogdonian gold, Rogdonian ring,” said Odir. “What other proofs do we need?”

  “There’s no indication from the South, from the Noceans,” Olagson concluded, “and the Confederation wouldn’t dare try anything like this, so I too think it’s Rogdon.”

  “But perhaps that’s exactly why we should look there, precisely because there’s no indication from the South,” said Rangulfsen.

  “There’s only one way to find out, my Generals,” said Count Volgren. “We’ll interrogate the subject until we get at the truth.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Olagson exclaimed. He levered his big body out of the chair and raised his beer horn.

  “I accept the toast!” Odir said, lifting his horn and knocking it against Olagson’s. “What’s more, I volunteer to direct the interrogation.”

  Lasgol’s blood froze as he imagined the horrors this madman might inflict upon the prisoner.

  The Assassin remained impassive.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the Count said, “Rangulfsen will be in charge. Prisoners under your care, Odir, tend to die before they talk.”

  “Humph! In that case they must be guilty, then!” the sadistic general said, with a sinister grin.

  “I doubt it, it’s rather that your methods are too bloodthirsty,” the Count said. “He’ll be in your charge, Rangulfsen. I hope you get the truth one way or another, but he must remain alive. We have to send him back to Norghana. King Thoran has ordered us to keep him alive, he himself wishes to be his executioner. His death must come from his own Royal hand.”

  “I’ll extract the information you want, Count, don’t worry,” said the General of the Snow Army.

  Odir stood before the Count and asked him directly:

  “When do we attack? My men are ready, the fortress is in sight, all we need is the order.”

  “We’ll hold our position until further notice,” the Count said, concluding the discussion.

  “As you wish,” Olagson said, and left the command tent.

  “Guards, with me. Escort the prisoner to my camp,” said General Rangulfsen, and left the tent.

  Odir seemed to be on the point of protesting, but turned on his heels and left as well.

  Lasgol watched them take Yakumo away. He knew he was going to be tortured, they would make him go through a nightmare of pain, but he could do nothing for him. He had finally completed his mission, one that was unlike any other he had known. He should have been relieved, happy, but all he felt was remorse. It was a remorse that corroded his soul at the thought of leaving that man to such punishment. He knew the foreigner was a murderer who had killed Duke Orten, and he had caught him and brought him to justice as was his duty. But I don’t feel good about it, I feel like a coward. I know they’re going to torture him ruthlessly until he either confesses or dies. There’s no honor in that, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s a murderer and that I’ve just done what I set out to do, this bitter taste in my mouth is never going to disappear. I could ignore what they’re going to do to him, go to the canteen and get drunk, but I’m part of the problem, and alcohol isn’t going to change that.

  Count Volgren looked at him,

  “You’re very thoughtful, Tracker. Is something bothering you?”

  “No, Sir, I’m sorry.”

  “You did a great job, and you’ll be generously rewarded for this hunt. His Majesty King Thoran will be deeply grateful for the capture of the murderer.”

  “Thank you Sir. There’s just one question I’d like to ask …”

  “Go ahead, Lasgol, feel free to ask.”

  “Will this prevent the war with Rogdon?”

  “Let’s hope it does”

  “Will the King withdraw the troops?”

  “That’s a different story, Lasgol. Kings are willful, their wishes inscrutable…”

  “Then you believe war is inevitable?”

  “We’ll know soon enough…”

  The sun was beginning to hide behind the Fortress of the Half Moon, where the Rogdonians, expectant and under great pressure, awaited the next move of the threatening invading army. Lasgol, downhearted, his footsteps heavy, was moving through the camp towards the soldiers’ tents of the Snow Army. As he walked past the different groups of men he could feel the tension in them as they sat around hundreds of small camp fires, eating their rations and drinking their beer. Their faces were joyless, with a prevailing sternness everywhere, as if some contagious sickness had spread through the whole camp. Only a few seemed to want to dispel the gloom with songs and ballads of great heroes from the epic Norghanian folklore.

  Lasgol knew it was the nerves that come before battle. The hardened soldiers were impatient to know whether or not they would be fighting. The waiting only served to increase the already tangible tension. He walked past a picturesque cart decorated in crimson. A woman came up to him, swaying her hips provocatively. Lasgol stopped uncertainly and the woman came up to him and pressed her body to his, placing her hand in his groin. Surprised, he took a step back.

  “Don’t be shy, handsome, come and have a good time with Olsa …” she said, moving back a little to reveal her generous bosom.

  “No thank you… I’m already taken care of…” he replied hastily so as to get out of the embarrassing situation.

  “Well, handsome,” she said with a wink, “I’ll give you a good price, and you’ll have nothing to complain about.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that, but my duty awaits me.”

  “As you wish… maybe later, then? Come back and ask for Olsa, you won’t regret it.”

  Lasgol went on with a smile on his face.

  Fortunately, and in the process preventing worse evils, all the fears and tensions of the soldiers were released by the great number of “ladies of
easy virtue” who accompanied the army on campaign. As with any army worthy of the name, that service was indispensable; if the basic needs of the men were not satisfied, a dangerous fire might break out in the camp.

  It always surprised him, the crowd that trailed an army on the march. From the very necessary prostitutes to blacksmiths, carpenters, butchers, shepherds, cooks, messengers and any number of people with different professions and specialized functions. They were all necessary for the good functioning of the massive army.

  He reached the distinctive white rectangular tents of the Snow Army. He looked avidly for the command ones and identified them by their banners. They were well protected by guards, watching like hawks. These were tall strong men, wearing white winged helmets on their blond heads. They wore heavy scaled armor down to their knees for protection, in the lighter and more flexible Norghanian style, although they were not as tough as the plated Rogdonian kind. Blood-red capes hung from their shoulders. He picked out General Rangulfsen’s tent and went to it. At once four guards intercepted him. He identified himself and waited for the officer on duty. A veteran captain saluted him, and after a brief exchange of explanations gave him the signal to follow.

  The General’s command tent was luxurious, full of rich decoration. Tapestries and paintings in golden frames covered the white cloth walls, while marble statues, great vases and golden flags decorated the room. The General was sitting behind a big table with elaborate decorations, flanked by two guards. Behind him, thick beige and white curtains gave way to the bedroom, which a single glimpse told Lasgol was even more elaborately decorated. He was surprised by this, since Norghanians were not very fond of superfluous adornment and the army officers even less so.

  “Did you wish to see me, Forest Ranger? Lasgol, isn’t it?” the General asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Kingdom is grateful to you. You’ve done a great service to your country. This exploit will soon be known throughout the camp. You know how rumors run through the army, worse than sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “Thank you, sir, I just did my duty.”

  “Nonsense! You went far beyond duty to capture this assassin. Very few would have gone after an escaped murderer into the very depths of the sacred mountain of the Masig. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I guess you did it to prevent war with Rogdon.”

  “You guess correctly, General.”

  “Well. We’ll see whether it’s possible after all. Is there anything you need, or that you want to ask me for? Gold, women, both perhaps? You only have to ask and it’ll be yours.”

  “You honor me, General, but no. What I would like is to be allowed to speak to the prisoner.”

  “Strange request. The prisoner is no longer your concern. You delivered him, you are no longer responsible for him. Now he’s mine, I’ll take care of him.”

  “I know, sir, but I’d still like to see him, with your permission. Perhaps I might convince him to talk.”

  “Hmm…that’s not such a farfetched idea after all. I like that. We lose nothing trying a bit of … less aggressive persuasion… All right, let’s go and see if your presence has an effect on him or not.”

  They left the command tent and turned towards one end of the camp, under the shadow of the enormous mountain gorge, where metal cages had been built to lock up captured prisoners. On either side, two huge rectangular tents of intense red made Lasgol’s hair stand on end. That was where they delivered unparalleled suffering. They went to the closest and walked in. It was indeed a torture chamber. The tent was filled with tools and machinery for torture, waiting to cause all the pain imaginable. Just seeing those instruments turned Lasgol’s stomach.

  Yakumo was hanging unconscious, upside-down, his feet in two black rings anchored to a wooden beam. He was bare from the waist up, and Lasgol noticed that his torso and back were crisscrossed with wounds. They had poured salt onto the open cuts of the whip to inflict more pain. Cuts and burns from red-hot-irons were clear on his chest. Four soldiers were on guard inside the tent. Lasgol walked up to Yakumo, passing close to the expert in torture, who grinned at him, showing teeth as black as coal, with two of the front ones missing.

  When he reached Yakumo, he looked at his hands tied behind his back and saw with horror that two fingers in each hand had been broken and left in impossibly grotesque positions. A feeling of utter guilt assailed him as a shark assails its prey. He felt so mean he had to look away in shame.

  “As you can see, we haven’t wasted any time,” the General explained. “But we haven’t been able to get a single word out of him.”

  “Not a single cry of pain,” the torturer said in some surprise. “Never in all my long years in this trade have I seen anything like this. He didn’t cry out even when we burnt him with a hot iron. He’s a very unusual man, nothing seems to make a dent in him. But sooner or later he’ll talk, they all do. Where’s he from? Do you know?”

  Lasgol looked at the man, trying to hide his loathing. He was aware that men of such base instincts were necessary when it came to dealing with certain matters that the kingdom found uncomfortable, but seeing the results of his work only made him despise this sewer rat absolutely.

  “I don’t know where he’s from, it must be some other continent,” Lasgol replied icily.

  “Those slanting eyes intrigue me,” the General said. “I’m not aware of anybody of this race in our continent, which worries me…”

  “He’s never told me anything about his origin, sir, but it’s clear he’s no Rogdonian…”

  “I see… He might not be Rogdonian, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t paid with Rogdonian gold.”

  “He told me that wasn’t the case.”

  “We’ll see,” said General Rangulfsen. “In the end he’ll confess. But in all honesty, he’s a remarkable man, this Assassin. I’ve never witnessed this before, his endurance of pain, his mental discipline, something truly unbelievable.”

  “Do you wish me to wake him up, sir?” the torturer asked.

  “Yes, go ahead, we’ll ask him some questions.”

  “Very well, sir. I have a bucket of vinegar, you’ll see how he screams when it hits the open wounds.”

  He threw the bucket of water at the unconscious Assassin.

  He reacted by shaking his body violently, swinging in the air from the intense pain he must be experiencing.

  But he did not utter a single sound.

  “Impressive,” General Rangulfsen admitted. “I have with me the Tracker who captured you, he wishes to speak to you.”

  The Assassin lifted his head from where he was hanging there upside-down and looked at Lasgol.

  “Tell them you don’t work for Rogdon, tell them, or they’ll go on torturing you without stopping.”

  Yakumo shook his head.

  “At least he’s communicating, which is something,” said the General.

  “Tell them the whole truth! There’s no need for all this. Tell us who sent you. Tell me!”

  Yakumo gave Lasgol a long glance.

  And then shook his head once again.

  The torturer cracked his whip on the prisoner’s back.

  “Answer when you’re spoken to, you foreign crap!”

  The Assassin received the whip-lash without even a grunt of pain.

  “Come on, Yakumo. You have to tell the General who sent you to kill Duke Orten. Tell him! It will stop the war, you have to tell him,” pleaded Lasgol.

  But there was no answer.

  The whip cracked again, over and over. The torture went on until the General raised a hand for the executioner to stop.

  “Have you got anything to tell us, Assassin?” the General asked him, affording him the chance to talk.

  A tense silence filled the room.

  “Come on, Yakumo, speak!”

  The Assassin looked at Lasgol and at last, in a heavily accented whisper, he said:

  “You are a man of honor, Lasgol, but they aren’t. If I speak, they’ll torture me to d
eath to make sure my last words don’t contradict me. If I don’t, they’ll kill me just the same. Either way I’m going to die, but how I do it is in my hands. In the second case I’ll live a little longer, and the suffering might help redeem some of the many evil things I’ve done. That’s the choice I’ve made. Now go, follow your path, Tracker, there’s nothing here for you.”

  “Well, it seems the murderer won’t speak to you either, Lasgol,” said the General. “It’s time to leave him in the hands of the torturer. We’ll see whether he’s capable of bearing the hell he’s going to burn in.”

  Looking at the executioner, he added: “He mustn’t die until he’s confessed in detail.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  Lasgol looked at Yakumo for one final time, and his spirit was crushed by a feeling of guilt as overwhelming as an entire mountain. He was going to allow this man to be killed. He felt like a coward for allowing it, even though there was nothing he could do to help him. He had done his duty, he had to turn away and go back to Norghana, forget the whole business. It was no longer his concern. He could not turn against his own people. But none of this calmed his conscience.

  “Come on, Lasgol, I’ll treat you to a comforting glass of strong liquor. I’d like to know some of the details of your adventure,” said the General.

  Lasgol turned round and went out with him.

  And that act, that abandonment, soiled him and blackened his soul, perhaps forever, perhaps without hope of redemption.

  A shadow of sadness brought on by his weakness came upon Lasgol and he felt cold, not with the cold of the evening but that of his own weakness, which chilled his soul.

  For a woman

  The last rays of the evening crept in through the small square window of the room, warming the bleak space. On a hard bed in his humble room in the Temple of Light Lindaro lay unconscious, struggling between life and death. The Black Lady of eternal oblivion spread her shadow over the priest’s bed, awaiting the end like a fateful carrion bird. The plain grey robe with its insignia of the Order of the Light hung from a chair, covered in blood.