Gravely, Por-al Row nodded. “If the gild has accepted a covenant for your er, demise, my liege, they will, as you say, bend their collective will to the covenant’s, er, successful conclusion...”
“Conclusion... That’s what I’ll be – concluded!”
Scowling, the king abruptly jumped up. “Then I must double my guard.” He swung the curtain back, turned, “When I’ve changed, I want to see this assassin – preferably alive, if you can manage that without bungling, Enchanter!”
The king disappeared behind the curtain, leaving the alchemist stunned and speechless.
Por-al Row bit his lip and twisted his cloak in his hands. This peremptory change in Yip-nef Dom was Iayen’s doing, he was sure. My scheme! he thought furiously. My idea entirely, and now, near its successful completion, she steps in to control him, instead of me! Damn her a thousand times!
Savagely, his flushed face contorted, he swerved round and hastened through the glittering apartments. Past the tall studded doors and surprised sentries, his sandalled feet slapping and echoing, he hurried towards the royal balcony.
***
Two simultaneous sword thrusts sank into the innman as he stumbled forward with his consciousness already fading. He but dimly experienced the pain as the blades cut into him.
His knees thudded hard upon the stone flags and he toppled forward, close to his dented helmet.
At least three more swords and as many axes were raised aloft to slice into him to avenge the many dead and maimed littering the courtyard.
“Stop! Stop at once, I command you! Stop!”
Though breathless and wheezing, by some incredible surge of desperation, Por-al Row had run almost full force onto the royal balcony and yelled at the top of his voice.
His screeching commands rebounded from the courtyard walls and arcades.
And, because of the urgency of his voice, he had the desired effect, save for one young man too quick to halt his downward plunge. The mace crashed wickedly against the innman’s right shoulder but evinced no answering cry of pain, only a muffled grunt as Ulran slid full onto his stomach.
“Leave him, let him live!” called Por-al Row as the assembled guards gazed up at him half in surprise, half in anger at being robbed of their sport and revenge.
Trembling, the alchemist was barely able to control the pitch of his voice. He was well aware how finely the intruder’s life balanced upon the thread of loyalty on the one hand and blood-lust on the other. “The king wants to see this assassin before the man dies!” he explained.
As he leaned forward, the tendons in his neck stretched. “Our liege promises that you may deal with the intruder after he has been forced to talk!” he lied. “I’m now sending down guards to put the assassin in his cell, to await the king’s displeasure!” he concluded and thrust a finger at the two dumbstruck sentries by the doorway he had moments before entered.
“Go!” he snapped, “and make sure he lives!”
He forced himself to stand and watch, with his shaking knees threatening at any moment to collapse under him.
It seemed an age for the two sentries to drag the bleeding figure across the body-strewn courtyard and towards the cell doors set in the arcade below on the right.
Aware of the suspicious eyes of the battle-weary guards, he shouted down, “Guard him well! If he dies, be assured, the king’s wrath will know no bounds!” And, imperiously, he turned and strode off the balcony into the spacious salon adorned with gold-painted furniture, brocade drapes and wild-bear skins.
With shaking hands Por-al Row stopped by a carved chest of drawers and opened a side-cupboard, withdrew a bottle of green liquid. Spilling some of this, he poured it down his throat, chin glistening wetly before he had drained it.
Slowly, his nerves came under control again.
***
Consciousness of a kind returned. Pain seemed to wash over him in waves, threshing against him, centring upon his head and descending to his torso and then his anguished extremities.
This he must conquer first, Ulran realised, trying to assemble cohesive thought after the timeless immersion in some horrible black pit.
Eyes shut, he forced his protesting body to lie supine and managed to convey messages to arms and hands that seemed apart from him to rest upon his forehead.
Slowly he lessened his breathing, moderated his rising and falling diaphragm, ignoring the objections his poor body made.
Ignore, ignore, and ignore. Calm, calm, calm. Assess, assess, and assess.
It took him longer than at any other time, but eventually he was in deep enough to survey the damage, which was severe.
The left-hand side of his skull was covered in blood, the majority having congealed since he entered his trance-state. The gash measured about a hand’s-width, but the skull bone itself was only slightly cracked and had not been chipped or displaced.
Bruises were spreading and already encompassed almost the entire left side of his face, and beneath both eyes. Reasoning was not impaired, nor, he felt, would his reactions be, if he could but rest a short while and rebuild on the mauling he had taken. But this too relied upon the state of the rest of him, which he now began to explore, sending out mental sensory feelers, testing, probing, until he had discovered the full extent of the injuries.
One sword thrust had pierced his side, exiting at his back, barely missing vital organs; the second blade had doubtless been a thrust from the side, for it had dug into his torso beneath his stomach-muscle and exited above his navel, a clean thrust severing muscle fibre alone.
His right shoulder-muscle had been pulped but not beyond painful use. A bone had been chipped, also.
Considerable bruising, especially on his hands, showed where some guards had kicked and stamped on him whilst hidden from Por-al Row’s view.
His appraisal completed, he slowly slithered out of his trance-state. But he continued to employ a part of his mind to blanket the surging spasms of pain from his damaged body.
Moving his throbbing head as little as possible, he sat up then pivoted, eyes attempting to penetrate the darkness of the cell. He stood up, and straw swished under him. Alone, even without the company of rats.
By touch, he began painstakingly measuring the cell.
The stairs numbered five, down which he had been thrown. Beneath these was a half-empty wooden bucket of stagnant water and another bucket brimful with excreta, flies buzzing contentedly.
The walls, once he had paced them out, each measured no more than three marks. The only ventilation was through the crack between solid door and door-frame: the place stank. He had no need to jump to test the ceiling’s height; it forced him to bend as he walked.
Stooping, he crossed to the corner farthest from the rank-smelling steps and picked up the straw, smelled it, tested its texture.
Soft in places and not yet stale; the absence of vermin helped. It seemed they either replaced the straw frequently or previous prisoners had not wandered further than the steps; of course, unspeakable tortures might have rendered the straw beneath the previous occupant worthless, necessitating renewal; but why bother with even this modicum of “comfort”?
Using choice pieces of the straw, he stanched the wounds in his abdomen, shoulder and head. With powders from his inner tunic soaked in phlegm, he daubed the medicinal paste on his head and other wounds, and secured it there with a few pieces of gold-leaf and strips of his outer tunic.
If they left him alone long enough, the healing properties of the haemoleaf and gold would work. If...
***
Two orms after their previous meeting, while sunrise had been a full orm gone, Yip-nef Dom now strode into the gold salon ahead of his alchemist. He left in his wake an aromatic sekor-scent which quite nauseated Por-al Row. The odour too keenly reminded Por-al Row of Iayen, the witch!
The king stood for some time on the royal balcony, looking beyond the tower in the courtyard’s centre. His visage crinkled in consternation as he watched the gaily capari
soned chariots enlisted for want of sufficient carts for their macabre role of funeral wagons. He had already given strict orders that the guards’ bodies were to be incinerated that evening, to join the corpse caravans to the Manderranmeron Fault. So many, slain by one man!
When the king turned to break the long uneasy silence Por-al Row feared for his life, seeing in his liege’s eye no sanity whatsoever, only a fiery redness.
“This one man has been subdued yet still lives?” Yip-nef’s voice was icy cold, threatening.
“Yes, my lord. In – in the arcade cell.”
“Is he hurt – wounded at all?”
Por-al Row swallowed, nodded. “Yes, they cut him down before I got – got to him – but he lives, sire.”
“Good. I say good for your sake, Por-al Row. Now, tell me, can you guarantee me complete safety for these next six days? Will I live to see the First Durin of Lamous, eh?” His odd eyes had not left Por-al Row once, nor had he blinked.
Quickly, the alchemist nodded again. “I will see to it, sire. I’ll treble the guards on the palace rooms, corridors–”
The king sighed, looked at the painted and sculpted ceiling. “I don’t wish to know the details, man! Just make sure you guard me well, for if you should fail before my time comes on the First Durin, I pray the gods will let me linger long enough to silence you!”
And with that he stepped forward and brushed past his alchemist.
Then, at the door, he turned, making the enchanter start. “See to it the assassin is brought to my royal chamber after we have eaten!”
“Yes, sire.”
“Oh, and... alchemist–”
“Sire?”
“Ensure he is guarded well!”
***
Mid-sun of First Sabin was overcast. A freak storm cloud drenched the stronghold city. Rain gushed without warning. Rivulets coursed down the cobbled streets, created treacherous cascades over the many steps and, from the soaking vantage points of the dozens of bridges, the road below them seemed like raging torrents.
Only those who had no option but to be out in the rain could be seen, scurrying under drenched cloaks from wall to wall, feet splashing upon the gleaming black stone.
As they dragged Ulran out of the cell, the overcast day seemed little contrast to the dim light of his cell.
Rain pattered loudly from the pillars and paving stones of the arcade.
His five captors bustled him roughly towards a double doorway at the end of the arcade, just forward of the soaked wooden seats beneath the royal balcony.
The courtyard glistened black and the solitary central tower loomed dark and windowless in front of swirling ominous blue-black clouds as the storm slowly passed over Arisa, heading for the plains of Floreskand.
***
Thoroughly soaked, chilled to the marrow, Alomar wrapped his hide cloak round Fhord’s shoulders. He squinted through the wet cage bars and eyed the winking sun which attempted to force a few reluctant rays around the side of the retreating storm-cloud.
The troops had fared no better and were drenched and miserable.
But there was no point in stopping: the brush and timber was as wet as they were so they couldn’t make a fire. Besides, Captain Dab-su Hruma had already sent a courier on the fleetest mount to inform Yip-nef Dom of their imminent arrival.
No later than the First Dekinma, he had said in the parchment. That would still leave the king four clear days before his mystical deadline. Ample time to use the captured red tellars; and more than adequate time to question his two prize prisoners.
Presently, mid-sun boldly showed and warmed them and steam began rising from the strange cavalcade.
The birds of the Overlord appeared the most bedraggled in that caravan and not for the first time Alomar wondered why they were being captured in such vast numbers. Yip-nef Dom had gone to insane lengths, it seemed.
The numbers of birds captured must be in the hundreds, if not thousands, judging by the soldiers’ talk. And now Dab-su Hruma’s caravan was joining up with two others, from the ranvarron and dunranron, and both hauled behind them no less than twenty large cages crammed with the same stonily silent red tellars.
More than before, the immortal warrior realised the time was approaching the deadline. He smiled grimly, forefinger and thumb absently curling his drying moustache.
Was this part of the Overlord’s design, gathering all the elements together, converging on the First City, the black Arisa? But, more important, was it at all conceivable that he, Courdour Alomar, might find a clue to his long quest?
He shrugged and then removed the city-dweller’s leggings and wrung them out.
***
The royal chamber also served as Yip-nef Dom’s bedchamber. Fifteen marks by ten, its walls lined with ivory pillars that spanned up to a domed ceiling inlaid with gold and twinkling jewels, it always affected anyone on first sight. Smaltglass tiles upon the floor added to the scintillating splendour.
In the centre of the room stood a vast circular bed complete with flounced canopy and gleaming silver ornamental posts. Spread untidily upon the floor around the bed were seven silver trays with the remains of a large meal.
A short distance from the bed was a crack along the ceiling: this provided the king with much amusement. “I do not want to show you to this assassin, my dear – not just yet.” He stood up, eyeing the ceiling crack as he scratched his hairy belly.
With her back to him, Iayen lay on her belly, naked little buttocks shining like porcelain, plainly languorous in after-love. “It would amuse me, though, to see him.”
Stepping into his silken pantaloons, he grinned. “You shall, my dear, you shall.” He strode across the room and pulled down on a thick sash sewn with threads of red, green and gold.
Presently, the ceiling crack registered a slight movement and an opaque film – a curtain – descended, shimmering in the coruscating light. When it was lowered completely, it blocked off the bed and the rest of the room.
“Now, then, can you see me clearly?”
“Yes,” she giggled, and he heard the zithering sound of the silk bedclothes.
Perhaps he had time to –
“Sire, the prisoner is outside,” intoned the door sentry on entering.
Damn!
Tying the sash about his flowing black-trimmed red robe, he ordered, “Bring in my seat. Get a move on!” He clapped his hands sharply.
In no time at all he was comfortably ensconced upon the lightweight throne at the right-hand end of the shimmering curtain and diagonally facing the double doors, his feet resting on a pile of cushions. Rings now adorned all his fingers; as a concession to Iayen he always removed them before –
“The prisoner, sire!”
Clash of accoutrements, some panting and squelching of sodden footwear then the group entered: five soldiers and three guards together with the assassin in the centre and the door sentry to one side.
“Stay there!” barked Yip-nef Dom imperiously, raising his bejewelled hand.
The group halted about eight marks from the throne cushions.
Yip-nef leaned forward, squinted. There was something familiar about this man, he thought, the hollow beating of unease in his chest. But it was difficult to see what he looked like, for even the soldiers looked unkempt after their soaking in the freak storm. Already, puddles had gathered at their feet.
And the assassin was certainly in a poor state. In the unnatural light of the royal chamber, Yip-nef could clearly see the gleam of dried blood on his head, shoulders and belly, and the clothes had been rent and slashed in many places. Strangely, straw and pieces of cloth appeared to be serving as makeshift bandages.
“What medication has he had?” Yip-nef enquired coldly, guessing the answer.
“None, sire – the scum murdered twenty-f–”
“Silence!” Yip-nef stood, kicked aside the cushions and his bare bejewelled feet padded with clacking sounds upon the smaltglass. “What manner of man wounded as he,” he mused a
loud, “manages to treat himself, I wonder?”
“Sire?” A puzzled look on the spokesman of the soldiers.
“What proof have you that he is an assassin, man?”
Roughly, one of the guards grabbed the innman’s unresisting arm and shook the ring fingers in front of the king. Both the red ruby and the gildring shone.
Studying the ring-hand which now showed the beginnings of contusions, another flicker of recognition agitated the back of Yip-nef Dom’s mind. But it concerned the red ruby, not the assassin’s ring.
He paled. “Let me see his face, quickly, man!”
Savagely, and with much pleasure, two soldiers from behind grabbed Ulran’s disordered hair and heaved, jerking his head back.
He showed no sign of pain though the gash in his skull broke and blood gleamed freshly again.
The king stepped back a pace, aghast.
“You – in Por-al Row’s visions!”
Head still held back, Ulran looked down at Yip-nef Dom, eyes narrowed. Sweat glistened on him as the pain from his opened skull wound jabbed insistently. He knew of Por-al Row and his alleged power. Now he thought he understood the headaches Fhord had suffered. He remained silent, studying the king who no longer appeared imperious and defiant but rather ashen and afraid.
“The innman! You’re the innman!”
Through gritted teeth, the innman growled, “Yes, Yip-nef Dom, I am Ulran of the Red Tellar.”
At mention of his name and the association with the Red Tellar, he felt the grip of the soldiers slacken a little. The whole city was afraid of the consequences of capturing the Overlord’s birds, but still they feared their king more.
Pacing up and down now, eyes afire, mumbling incoherently to himself, Yip-nef Dom presented a fearful picture to his soldiers.
Ulran only observed a man see-sawing with insanity.
“Yes, yes, now I have it! Ulran – the runaway from the Kellan-Mesqa!” He barked aloud, an uncanny unnatural laugh. “Yes, that explains your friendship with the Hansenand!” And again he mumbled to himself, still striding up and down, his red robe flapping.
Suddenly, Yip-nef Dom sprang forward. The back of his hand swiped outwards, robe-cuff cracking.
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