Royal rings thudded into Ulran’s left cheek, scored viciously, and the king skipped away, chuckling merrily, sucking the blood from the large ring-stone.
Raw and incisive, the anguish tore at Ulran’s skull, threatening to lift the roof off his head. But outwardly, he showed no emotion at all. In the fogginess while he combated the new hurt, he could discern a tinkling sound, of childish giggling, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps Yip-nef had finally stepped over the rim into absolute insanity. If so, his life was as good as forfeit.
But as he came fully to his senses again he realised the giggling came from behind the shimmering wall – or rather, curtain – on their left. A girlish giggle. Sadistic. But who?
“A foretaste of what you can expect from my men, innman,” chuckled the king, “when I finally return you to their tender mercies.”
Unsettlingly, the king had regained his composure and sat back upon his throne. “It’s a pity you are the incorruptible innman of the Red Tellar, my poor man,” he went on in his sickly-sweet voice. “Anyone else, and I would have offered a pact. Tell me all you know about Lornwater’s defences for your life.”
He shook his head, pouting lips now red with Ulran’s blood. “But no, you wouldn’t turn against your adoptive city, the city that killed your family and ransacked your home! You’re too loyal!” And he sneered as though addressing some filthy insect.
But Ulran was unmoved, though he found it difficult to maintain his position as wave after wave of punishing pain swept over him.
“Yes, Ulran, your beautiful Lornwater is raising column upon column of smoke, and destruction ploughs through the streets. My scryer sees all!” His real eye widened, glinting devilishly. “Looting, rape, fire and death! Your precious inn is under siege! Lornwater’s civil war is working my way!”
Again Ulran spoke between clenched teeth, his voice surprisingly level. “An opportune time for you to attack, is that it?”
“Of course! I remember the last war between Lornwater and the manderon cities well – in 2009, but this will be the most savage, the worst by far. Yes, the war to end all wars for Floreskand. And we shall win!”
At that moment Por-al Row entered.
Recognition was instant: “Ulran,” he breathed, suddenly trembling.
The innman’s guards moved uneasily.
Suspicion tinged the king’s narrowed eye. “How do you know his name, alchemist?”
Walking around the soldiers and the innman, Por-al Row replied, “The pieces fell into place almost immediately. I hadn’t seen his visage clearly in my spells, and I had not seen him fight until last night in the courtyard. Only one man of Lornwater who is also an innman could fight in that manner. Once I recognised him as the innman and not an anonymous assassin, sire, it had to be Ulran of the Red Tellar.”
“Very logical – and, doubtless, honest.” Abruptly, Yip-nef swerved round, spat out, “Make the prisoner kneel!”
Ulran was forced to his knees. His head was still held painfully back, but his grim mouth remained firm.
“What are we to do with this illustrious innman, then, Por-al Row?”
Mind racing, the alchemist shrugged. “He’ll never join us, I fear.” Clearly, the king knew nothing of the fight at the merchant’s house, nor of the child-hostages or the capture of Bindar; for it had been through the traitor Elmar that he had learned of Ulran, including his name. “But perhaps, coerced, he could impart a great deal.” And he rubbed his emaciated hands together, the corner of his mouth curving.
“I had in mind something of the sort, Enchanter. But I feel he is still far too stubborn to bend easily, without breaking him beyond use. No, I think we have time to bide, to soften him a trifle more, hmm?” And he cocked his head towards the shimmering curtain.
Yip-nef’s back-handed blow caught the innman partially unawares, slapping into his right cheek. The guards grunted in pleasure. He felt a warm trickle from the corner of his mouth. His cheek stung, felt raw.
“May I compliment Por-al Row on his seeing powers?” the innman said. “Yet he hides the truth from you all, I see.”
Por-al Row had been about to step forward to listen to the innman’s praise when the last words penetrated and his face altered, paled.
“You are all destined to die on the fateful morning.”
Yip-nef Dom looked up, startled by the innman’s lack of forcefulness, his complete resignation to the pain he must be enduring and to the prophecy he uttered. “Is this the truth, Enchanter?”
“No, sire! No, of course not! He tries to divide us, sow seeds of doubt with his pernicious lies!”
Ulran chuckled grimly but said nothing.
The alchemist crouched in front of Ulran, though not too close. He scowled. “You lie, innman. In five days’ time your precious birds will be slaughtered, every one! And it might be a good idea to slaughter you with them!” He spat.
Unmoved by the alchemist’s spittle drooling down his cut cheek, Ulran said, equably, “Why kill the birds, why bring the Overlord’s wrath upon you and your people?” Judging by the grip of his captors, he believed his words had troubled the guards.
“Why?” The king laughed as Por-al Row stood up. “In time, innman, in time you will learn!” Yip-nef kicked out, full into the innman’s chest, but the blow was weak, the foot fleshy and unaimed.
“Take him back to his cell! I want him starving and thirsting! Do not harm him further, let hunger and thirst do their work! Now, go!”
***
Dusk was feathering the sky, darkening the cobalt-blue as Ulran was pushed and dragged along the now dry arcade and back to his cell.
He was flung down the stairs but managed to land on his feet, butting against the far wall.
He smiled thinly. So they desired that he fast. Then fast he would, on his own terms.
Calmly sitting cross-legged upon the straw in the far corner, he began to meditate upon the thin crack of light beneath the cell door.
***
“These precautions, they’re going ahead well?”
“Yes, my liege,” responded the enchanter, proudly looking around the enormous room.
The royal shrine salon measured thirty marks by eighteen, its teak-beamed ceiling twelve marks above and adorned with tall idols of every conceivable god, each hanging from a noose.
Along each wall, roughly two marks from the ceiling, was a single row of arched smaltglass windows, each measuring two marks across and divided by an ornate black-stone pillar.
Every vestige of other shrines, idols and the lesslords had been removed in preparation for the Rite of First Durin.
At the far end of the salon stood a marble dais – the royal platform – with three steps round its circumference. Behind the dais were four doorways, each with different coloured damask curtains, presently drawn back for the craftsmen and metal-smiths to pass through unhampered.
The only other doorway was the double entrance where they now stood.
Workmen filed back and forth. Woodcutters and metal-smiths busily constructed massive scaffolding and pulleys. Shavings littered the marble tiled floor. Two braziers puffed up smoke, glowing red-hot as smiths worked their metal.
“It will be ready in time?” It did not seem possible that the Rite’s preparations could result from anything so disorganised.
“We require a full day before the rite, sire – yes, it will be ready.”
And Por-al Row grinned. For although Iayen had a hold over the king, Yip-nef still wanted the promise the rite offered, and the promise meant more to him than any caresses the she-devil could provide. And once it proved successful, why, then Yip-nef Dom would discard her, for he would be seeking to sate himself on the world, not a mere witch-girl!
***
Ulran was in deep. Body inert. Breathing undetectable. He sat as though one dead. But in this state his body could begin its formidable task. Healing. Releasing the pain.
He was no-mind – save for one tiny piece of his subconscious that remained on
the alert for any intruders into his cell or trance. For his excessive vulnerability had to be safeguarded, even at the cost of a valuable contribution of mind.
He sat and healed. Slowly.
***
True to his word, Dab-su Hruma led his caravan through the portals of Arisa on the First Dekinma of Lamous. His steel-grey eyes saddened for no cheering crowds came out to welcome his men, save for a few loot-hungry harlots. No praise for his captures, either.
His beloved city was afraid, as were his men.
He remembered with pride his return from other battles, when he had been a young soldier like these men he now led. Then, times had been different. He turned in his high saddle and looked at the caged prisoners. What glorious fighters we have become! he thought with deep and hurtful irony.
***
Alomar sat eyeing the city as it closed about them, black and forbidding, familiar to his ancient eyes. His memories of loosing that fateful arrow seemed of but a few years. He wondered how long it had been.
His companion lay asleep, a great deal thinner than before, but possessed of a wiriness of frame that belied her inner-strength, for Fhord’s stubbornness to live had truly surprised the immortal warrior. She may cry occasionally, plead with her useless gods at times, but she was still a brave woman. And that was compliment enough from Courdour Alomar.
And what of Ulran? Two days back they had encountered some straggling soldiers still searching for the innman but to no avail. But was Ulran’s track cold, as were his pared bones? In this land, even the innman might not have survived.
Morbid again, warrior? he thought with annoyance.
Growling, he spat into the street.
Fhord slept on.
***
The bird-cages were left at the side wall of the palace building. Above, the ropes and pulley dangled, the vicious hook waiting for another full cage. Of necessity, the stones of the palace wall had been removed, providing an adequate gap to accommodate the cages as they swung inwards. From there they would come to rest upon the broad landing and be wheeled through the double doors, into the royal shrine salon.
Captain Dab-su Hruma sighed, led his caravan round to the courtyard entrance-gate, and dismounted. Turning, he addressed his men. “Go gently with our prisoners, men – and bring them up after me. And guard them well!”
He entered a side entrance and walked without pride up the steep winding stairs, his sword, buckles and armour clanking and echoing as he ascended.
***
Inwardly, Ulran was shocked at his companions’ appearance, though he realised to them he must seem just as bad. He hoped they felt as capable as he, eager to take advantage of any laxness in their guards.
At hearing of Dab-su Hruma’s arrival, the king had ordered that Ulran be brought up into the preparation salon that adjoined the royal chamber. Here, kings of Arisa were dressed in all their finery for the state occasions.
But now the place was neglected and gaudy: Yip-nef Dom had no intention of wasting time with pomp and ceremony in his new reign following the rite. He had added that the innman be brought in chains.
So Ulran stood, inwardly refreshed from his meditations, with faculties at acute pitch because of his enforced fast. The chains that secured his wrists, neck and ankles hung limp, as if weightless beads on him. His immediate concern was for the welfare of his companions.
Neither Alomar nor Fhord recognised him at first. The innman studied them.
Hair was matted and unkempt, their clothes filthy and stained. Alomar’s fiery eyes still retained their glint of ironic amusement but his pallor was unnaturally pale, tinged with blue; his right arm which hung useless could account for that, for it looked hopelessly swollen, discoloured grey, almost black. Fhord stood only with Alomar’s support and she appeared to have grown thinner to the point of emaciation, her clothes hanging loosely. Fhord’s eyes stared darkly, unseeing, out of white skull-flesh that appeared pasty and rough.
Then, as Alomar’s steadily roaming eyes came to the innman his lips curled in an amused grin. “You made it, then?” was all he said.
With a chink of chains, Ulran nodded.
“Silence in my presence!” screamed the king. He was visibly trembling, unable to remove his stare from Courdour Alomar. “Bring the old one here, at once!” he commanded, voice breaking at the end of his order.
Alomar looked as though he debated the viability of felling his three guards and attacking Yip-nef Dom. But then he shrugged inimitably and looked up, unwavering.
“Kneel, dog!” Yip-nef demanded.
Captain Dab-su stepped back nearer the doorway as the guards forced the warrior down on one knee.
“After fifteen years, to finally have you at my mercy!” The king chuckled and spat in Alomar’s face.
Alomar received the insult without blinking, his eyes dark and staring.
***
“You insolent–” the king coughed on more spittle, stepped back. After a racking coughing bout, he flung out his arms. “Away with him, take him away! I can’t stand the sight of the swine! To the Tower of Ash with him!”
Dragged back to his feet, this time Alomar resisted and said, “Yip-nef! Before I go, tell me one thing.”
The king held his head to one side, perplexed. He indicated to the guard to let the warrior have his say. “What?”
“What became of the baby and her mother, Yip-nef? Tell me that!”
Laughing on the verge of hysteria, the king snapped the slim chain about his neck and swung the glass pendant in front of Alomar’s face.
Within the glass was a grey-green eye.
“I dropped her, Courdour, just as your arrow ruined my eye!” Pointing to his glass orb, he said, “So I took one of hers in payment!”
And he laughed even louder. At that moment a door to their right opened and a girl of no more than sixteen years entered, wearing a diaphanous dress bordered with gold lace.
As she neared, her young face came into full focus.
Half of her visage was horribly deformed, squashed upwards, save for the intelligent shining eye which studied the assembled men. Her other eye had been plucked from the unmarred side of her face, leaving a black pit which compounded her misbegotten lopsided appearance.
“That’s her – my heir!” cackled Yip-nef Dom. “Iayen, named after her mother who died down the mines!”
The lopsided face changed subtly, evilly, and Alomar realised she was smiling dotingly at her accursed father. Fifteen years... It hadn’t seemed that long ago.
“Your arrow did more than deprive me of an eye, Courdour Alomar,” said the king, returning to a more sober mien. “It twisted her heart into hate, a hate more vile than mine.”
He stepped back, sat upon one of two armchairs. He patted the other to his left. “When I hand over my enlarged kingdom to her, she will have no qualms about murdering Yip-dor Fla or anyone else!”
Iayen sat beside her father. She leaned over him and her dress folds fell from her small rounded shoulder, baring a young girl’s pert breast. Cupping her hand to Yip-nef’s ear, she whispered and giggled. Ulran recognised the malefic sound.
Yip-nef Dom’s response was immediate.
He stood abruptly, one eye staring, head thrown back as he laughed aloud. “I have news for you all, my friends!” he said. “My royal prerogative has produced an heir of my own loins! Iayen is to have my child!”
An unsettled murmur arose from the soldiers there. But the three prisoners remained unmoved, fully aware that whilst incest was acceptable for royalty and for the gods, in the case of these two it was despicable and somehow obscene.
“Now,” said the king, still standing, “take Courdour Alomar to the Tower of–”
“No, wait, please,” came the soft voice of Iayen. Her jewelled hand rested on her father’s.
She stood beside him, smiling crookedly. “Why not cut away his eyelids first, then he can savour every instant of his own death?”
King Yip-nef Dom chuckled then sai
d, “Do as she says – remove his eyelids!”
And they took Alomar away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ASH
From Man to Ash to Fault.
– Creed of the Disbelievers
It was late into First Dekinma when Yip-nef Dom ordered Fhord and Ulran to be placed in separate cells.
Dab-su Hruma had excused himself earlier, claiming he was tired after the journey whereas in truth he was sickened by his king’s behaviour. He left with his mind reeling. His hands groped against the stone walls of the winding staircase, his belief in his captaincy shattered. But what could he, one man, do?
His loyal men still awaited him, many dozing in the saddle. He shrugged off his depression and mounted up. “Come, men, I’ll buy you all a well-deserved drink!”
And they rode out of the courtyard, hoofs clattering upon paving stones. The sound bounced from the narrow black streets.
In drink there was forgetfulness.
***
Fhord lay comatose and groaning, aware she was alone without the presence or comfort of Alomar. Her slow awakening was agonising and she was on the verge of tears.
How different this situation was compared with the glowing hopes she secretly harboured when she volunteered to accompany Ulran.
One by one the disappointments and privations had mounted, each atop the other, and now she lay, stinking in her own waste, bruised and wraithlike, her belly continually rumbling for sustenance. Yet she did not cry, though the temptation was great.
Her cell possessed a small barred window in the door and through this streamed the red glint of First Sidin’s dawn.
And with the dawn was hope.
She wondered if that was a saying of Alomar’s.
During their journey through Arion the immortal warrior had spoken often, and many times his meaning had been lost on her, but the comfort given had helped. More than comfort, though, she now realised.
She pressed herself against the dry wall and rose upon thin shaky legs.
Alomar had unknowingly instilled into her a sense of purpose, an iron unshakeable will that seemed to bolster her up even in this, her darkest time.
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