Floreskand_Wings

by Morton Faulkner

  “Hmm?”

  “News, my pet – from that captain – oh, Dab-su I think he’s called. They’ve captured two strangers just outside Tritaalan and they’re bringing them in!”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, my thoughts precisely. Where is the other one – or has he perished on the mountains, I wonder?”

  He screwed up the parchment awkwardly and flung it across the fur-carpeted room, brushed aside the beads and the sight that befell him washed away the quivering redness of his features. “You’re exquisite, you really are!”

  ***

  Emerging at dusk, they stretched aching limbs with care, lest cramp assail them. The small square where these eight wells were situated was completely deserted, unbathed by street lanterns. Towards the latter part of the day Bindar had suggested they pay a visit on a man of his acquaintance whose profession was somewhat dubious.

  Fahurar Grie opened the door a crack in answer to Bindar’s carefully spaced knock.

  “Let us in, my friend, before one of Yip-nef’s watchers sees us!”

  Fahurar glimpsed the swords beneath his visitors’ robes and let them in. He hastily shut the door after them.

  “Explanations later, fr–”

  But Fahurar was not listening; he stared wide-eyed at Ulran’s ring-hand. Open mouthed he looked up at the innman. Now, for the first time, both Bindar and Essalar noticed the ring taken from the corpse in Oquar II Forest.

  Ulran refrained from enlightening them that he was not a member of the assassin’s gild.

  “No, no matter, Bindar,” breathed Fahurar, “if you have a friend in this illustrious gild, then I shall be only too happy to supply any need you require.” He swallowed and shook hands with the innman and Essalar as introductions were made.

  “We spent last night down the fifth well,” Bindar explained.

  “Yes, I thought you might have done something like that – the entire city has been thirsting for your blood!”

  Bindar looked shaken. “Why?”

  “You obviously haven’t heard, no – you couldn’t have. Por-al Row has taken ten children into custody–”

  “Not – not reprisals, surely not?”

  Fahurar shrugged. “He issued an ultimatum not four orms gone. A child will die at sunrise and one more each orm thereafter unless you, Bindar, give yourself up.” Fahurar looked puzzled. “What now surprises me is that they must know of your presence, Ulran, yet they never mentioned you in their statement.”

  “Too many people have heard of the Red Tellar’s innman, that’s why,” suggested Essalar.

  Ulran rubbed his aquiline nose abstractedly. “This is but another example of their warped minds. They won’t worry about what people think of them when they slaughter innocent children, yet they are concerned for what folk might say or do if someone of, say, outside influence is killed. It doesn’t make sense – and I’m not that influential to justify such back-handed compliments!”

  “Yip-nef’s over the edge, I fear,” Fahurar said morosely. “Gelstrab – you may remember him, Essalar – the cutpurse, he was caught this afternoon. They cut off his hands, both of them, just like that! Cutpurses have always thrived in Arisa, it’s been an honourable calling. But now I’m afraid to thieve anything,” he ended.

  ***

  Por-al Row was terribly upset. Yip-nef Dom had insisted that he was not on any account to be disturbed in his royal chambers for the rest of the evening. That had been over a day ago! And still he was closeted with that hell-cat, Iayen.

  And he felt he had good cause to worry, for already she was usurping his place. Soon... by the gods, if she were regent! By his own carefully worded suggestions, Por-al Row had incited anger and hate for the royal concubines to overwhelm the king. Each and every one had been done to death, some serving a useful purpose in the casting of arcane spells.

  But still Iayen twisted the king round her little finger!

  He had tried telling Yip-nef Dom about the intruder, Ulran by name, being in the city – according to that traitor, Elmar. But he had been sent away with a flea in his ear. So when the trap snapped shut abortively, he had refrained from informing his liege. If Iayen had known of that, what capital she’d have made of it! No – he would decide. But had he done the right thing? He had nothing against the silly little brats, but they must be used.

  Once they had this Bindar fellow, they would extract information out of him, one way or another. The torturer was tired of breaking weaklings; Bindar would be ideal material. He licked his lips. Yes, even such a felon as Bindar would not stand idly by and let innocent children die.

  But what had been in that message the king received yesterday?

  O Iayen, damn your accursed evil eye!

  ***

  “I’ve got the rope you wanted,” said Fahurar, “and two associates of mine have broken into the rooms. Nobody is aware. Are you sure that’s all you require?”

  “That will do, thank you, friend,” Ulran said. “Let’s go.”

  The three men took a lengthy and devious route to the houses over-looking the Sixth Gate of the palace. This route entailed crossing the spans of three small stone bridges in succession and it was while they were upon the second that they were spotted, merely by chance.

  Ulran’s sword and the rope around his shoulder were well concealed beneath the watchman’s cloak. Though they had borrowed a hat to hide Bindar’s distinctive red hair, the ruse had not worked; a freak gust of wind blew the hat off and the platoon nearby shouted in alarm and recognition.

  “Essalar – over the bridge. Back to Fahurar, quickly now!”

  The merchantman made to protest but Bindar urged him. “You’ve a family, man – look to them! We can handle these!”

  Nodding reluctantly, Essalar vaulted the bridge wall and plummeted the four marks to the cobbled road below. He landed without serious hurt and his foot-falls died away.

  Then the soldiers were upon them.

  Ulran dealt unceremoniously with the foremost two and pitched their dead bodies over the parapet.

  Bindar suffered a severe cut to his left arm but served up death in return.

  But the hue-and-cry was up now.

  Soldiers had been combing the city since Fourth Sufinma and had only been waiting for an opportunity to avenge their butchered comrades.

  From all directions they came, or so it seemed. But back the way they had come was still free; Bindar immediately noticed: “Ulran, go back, lie low tonight,” he shouted and killed another soldier.

  Four more charged the red-head and met with lightning-like thrusts from Bindar’s legs and sword. “Go, Ulran, go!” he urged at the top of his voice.

  Ulran stood, on the slope of the bridge, uncharacteristically hesitant.

  “Save the red tellars, Warrior!” said Bindar. His blows clashed and baulked the onrushing troops.

  Ulran saluted with his sword, turned and fled down the winding alleyways. He found a shadowed alley of refuse buzzing with flies and avoided the soldiers who were all converging on the three bridges.

  Bindar would be overwhelmed, numbers would tell in the end. The innman shook himself and wove his circuitous way back to Fahurar’s abode.

  To flee was the action of a wise man, he told himself; but the taste of it still rankled. He may be called Runaway, but since those days he had never run from a fight. Yip-nef Dom would assuredly pay for the loss of a good man like Bindar. And there were others, too. He wondered how many more, before –

  He was becoming morose, he realised.

  Apart from explaining that Essalar had hidden in the city, Fahurar had not spoken a word.

  Now Ulran said, “Can you tell your men I’ll go tomorrow night?” His lips held in a determined slit. “Without fail.”

  ***

  Alomar, stiff and cramped in the cold night, asked Captain Dab-su Hruma if he would release one of his hands so he might better keep his companion Fhord alive.

  The captain, appreciating his king’s acid tongue and vi
triolic heart, agreed. “Aye, I don’t want a valuable captive dying on me.”

  Alomar’s right arm, now numb and discoloured, was lashed to an up-right bar but his left was freed.

  ***

  The palace wall was simply that, a wall, without ramparts or sentries. But its construction was distinctive. Gargoyles were placed at frequent intervals and in between the top of the wall that comprised snaking masonry, carved in loving detail by some long dead stonemason. How evil the black effigies look in the silver sheen of moonlight, mused Ulran. For a long time he studied the stretch of wall opposite the window.

  Within the room Ulran occupied, Fahurar’s two associates stood, guarding the door to the half-landing. Downstairs, two more guarded the front door, and two others were at the rear.

  The owners of the building were presently guests of Fahurar. Briefly, Ulran had spoken to the old couple, assuring them that he meant no harm but desired access to the palace.

  It was obvious that they realised he was involved with Bindar, for they looked afraid, doubtless thinking of the ten children.

  Bindar, miraculously, had been taken alive, though only just. By all accounts he was seriously wounded, but still lived. Word had quickly spread that Bindar was held, though obviously Por-al Row had hopes to keep the fact secret, thereby strengthening the populace’s fear. Ulran knew well enough, in fear was weakness. Por-al Row had learned the axiom well. But whispers had transformed into vociferous mobs demanding the release of the ten children.

  Without a word, the children were all released, unharmed.

  Tears and gratitude greeted them, yet another psychological move on Por-al Row’s part, the innman realised. If the next time ever occurred, the people would trust the enchanter’s sense of decency and fairness, two attributes which Ulran doubted Por-al Row really possessed.

  The street was some ten marks below. Ulran reckoned the distance was no more than eight marks from window to palace wall.

  He leaned forward, peered down the street: the sentry at the Sixth Gate twelve marks to his left was disinterestedly pacing up and down.

  Ulran left the room with his rope and ascended the stairs.

  From the roof-top he could look down upon the street far below and the wall. Beyond the wall was the courtyard with the black shapes of a tower and the palace indistinct but ominous.

  He looped the rope into a slip-noose and, gathering plenty in one hand, he cast out and down.

  As luck would have it he was successful with the first throw. The noose draped over a grinning gargoyle.

  He tugged, tightening the rope about the stone beast’s neck. Then he gathered up the loose end and dangled it in front of the open window below. One of his accomplices stretched out and caught the rope.

  He descended the stairs and re-entered the room. Once the rope was securely tied to a door-frame, he nodded to the two men and climbed onto the sill.

  Hand over hand he crossed ten marks above the silent street.

  He then soundlessly scrambled atop the gargoyle and stayed there, legs wrapped around the figure.

  Withdrawing the knife that Fahurar had procured, he severed the rope and it fell away, against the wall of the building opposite. One of his accomplices slowly pulled the rope up. They would then close the window, lock the house and leave with the rope, thereby safe-guarding the old couple.

  Ulran replaced the knife in his belt. For a moment he paused. Still garbed in watchman’s cloak and helm, he crouched over the gargoyle.

  A moving moonbeam of the last quarter lit up the courtyard for a brief instant before a scudding cloud returned it to formless shadows. Yet in that time he took in the dimly lit stone arcades running along the courtyard walls to right and left.

  In the centre of the courtyard stood a tall tower with wooden benches on the side farthest from him. These benches climbed in tiers and faced the black tower.

  To his right was the Sixth Gate and barbican where sentries paced.

  Behind the benches rose the solid mass of the palace itself, each side of its central balcony draped with hangings. At each corner of the palace, black against the lesser dark of night sky, circular towers with their pointed spires.

  The drop was about eight marks as he hung by his hands. He landed with a mute thud, and looked about him, in particular at the barbican: but the two sentries were busy conferring, their backs to him.

  He determined to attempt an entrance using the arcade doorways. One of them would surely have access to the palace.

  But the Fourth Sapinma of Darous was a fateful night for the innman.

  In his fleeting appraisal of the courtyard in the transient moonlight he had omitted to descry two figures, young soldiers playing dice on the flagstones of the right-hand shagunblend-lit arcade. The innman had been too intent on the sentries to note any movements to his right.

  Only now, as he stepped a pace forward from the wall’s penumbra did he hear a whispered imprecation. The arcade was pillared but not walled; he was in plain view should they look up.

  Ulran stood stock still, debating whether he could afford to rush the pair. His decision was taken from him when one of the gamblers stood up in anger and threw the dice into the courtyard. At the same moment he saw Ulran.

  The innman crossed the intervening three marks in as many bounds, sword drawn. His left leg flashed out, foot crashing fatally into his discoverer’s chest.

  The second gambler backed off and, stumbling, yelled out before he too died.

  At that time the two sentries noticed the commotion and ran forward, while a third – whom Ulran had not seen earlier – hastened into the left-hand arcade and beat loudly upon a small gong.

  From various doors along the right-hand arcade soldiers rushed out, hastily donning sword-belts and helmets.

  The two sentries approached warily, for word of the innman’s prowess had gone before him.

  His faithful sword sang and within a short time the dead lay strewn about his wheeling frame. He scythed with the blade, lanced out with lethal limbs and fought his way towards the barbican, the only possible way out.

  But the guards continued to pour into the courtyard. Many now held back, awaiting an opening that never seemed to occur.

  Orm after orm Ulran fought, never seeming to tire, never wavering in his resolve.

  At last he felt his back thud into the hardwood doors. Swivelling and pivoting, killing as he did so, he glanced at the bolts.

  He swerved, parried, slashed to right and left, while his free hand felt behind him and tugged at the heavy bolt.

  Most men would have needed two hands to shoot the bolt, but with a loud metallic clang it opened. There were two more: one level with his waist, the other at ankle-height. Dangerously awkward.

  Yet still he kept his enemies at bay, his sword clangouring endlessly, until the whole courtyard seemed filled with the ringing sound of steel upon steel.

  He was hard-pressed to keep slashing out, dissuading the foremost soldiers from pressing too close. Now he could not employ his deadly feet, only his sword and free fist. If the press of men continued to come on relentlessly, he would surely be flattened against the door panels.

  Again, he repeated his earlier manoeuvre and released the waist-high bolt. But as he did so, he was a fraction too slow in parrying a battle-axe on his left. The hilt crashed against his skull and toppled his helmet resoundingly onto the courtyard flags.

  Head exploding, he slashed upwards, parting the axe-head from handle.

  But he could no longer see clearly. Everything and everybody swam before his eyes.

  Oddly, he wondered if Alomar would have relished his end this way.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IAYEN

  By this vow, I will most horribly revenge!

  – The Lay of Lorgen

  Yip-nef Dom’s obese white body rose from the countersunk bath. Sekor-petals clung to his dripping frame. “I’ll join you later, my dear,” he said to the diminutive Iayen who sat with her back to him.<
br />
  She didn’t answer, but Yip-nef Dom hardly noticed, for his attention centred upon the quivering figure of Por-al Row outside the bead curtains.

  Flinging a robe about his corpulent flesh, the king padded wetly across the mosaic tiles, brushed the curtain aside and scowled at the alchemist.

  The king’s sudden entrance and the snaking swish of the beaded curtains caught the alchemist unawares. He jumped and stumbled back a pace, lean sharp-nailed hands going to his mouth. “Sire!” he expostulated, “I greatly regret disturbing your – your ablutions – I–”

  Yip-nef Dom snarled, “You’ll regret it, Por-al Row, if it is not of utmost importance, of that I can assure you!” And he shook himself in barely concealed anger, droplets of scented water scattering from his lank thinning hair.

  “It’s an intruder, sire – in the courtyard at this very moment!”

  “So? Surely the palace guard can handle one man! Is that all?”

  “No, sire, oh no, you don’t under – er, you see, he has been fighting off the guards for fully four orms now.”

  Yip-nef’s fleshy pale mouth dropped open. “F – four orms?”

  The alchemist nodded. “I haven’t been able to get a good look at him through the fighting, sire, but I believe he may be a hired assassin. Whispers passed back by the guards, at any rate, indicate...”

  Visibly shaken at this disclosure, the king shuffled to the right, fumbled for a high-backed chair and, slumping into it, he let the robe fall from his shoulders to reveal obscene fatty breasts sparsely patterned with grey hair. “A member of the assassin’s gild, you say?”

  Por-al Row nodded. He regained his composure at sight of his liege’s confidence beginning to fall apart. “There seems no doubt, my lord.”

  Eyes looking up at the alchemist – one watery and beseeching, the other lifeless and cold – the king said, “But – but if he – he – if he fails, won’t they – I mean, won’t they send someone else and keep on, until – until…?”