by Peter David
The mother was staring uncomprehendingly. “What…why would you…?”
The one a step behind him yanked out his sword.
The mother screamed.
And I snapped.
I would like to say, in retrospect, why I completely lost control of myself. It was one hundred percent averse to my nature. It was not only contrary for me to risk myself for someone else, but I in fact endeavored to watch out for my own wellbeing at all times.
The answer was simple and obvious: I was not going to witness a second child being slain in the same day. I was not.
“Get out!” I bellowed at them once more and activated the trip button situated in my staff.
There was a sculpture of a dragon wrestling a lion mounted upon the top of the staff.. It appeared simply to be ornamental. If that was all anyone believed it to be, so much the better. But upon the trip of a button, a vicious tongue snapped out of the dragon’s open mouth. A tongue that consisted of four inches of tapered, sharp steel.
I swung the staff toward the throat of the closest guard, the one who had pulled out his sword. Had I made contact cleanly, as I intended, I would have laid open his throat. But the soldier was formidable at battle, of course, and reflexively he brought the sword up and deflected the thrust of the staff. Had he not managed to do so, he would have died almost immediately.
Unfortunately for him, he did not clearly see the blade itself, merely the staff. So his concentration was purely on that and, as a result, he deflected the staff upward toward his face.
The blade ripped open his right eye.
The man let forth a shriek that was positively deafening. He stumbled backwards, grabbing at his face, dropping his sword and then—even better—tripping over it. He hit the ground gasping, writhing, howling a string of profanities in his language that he should have resisted saying considering there was a lady present. I, however, was hardly in the mood to scold him.
I spun to face the other guard. He had pulled out his own sword and was coming straight at me. I was not enamored of the idea of having a head to head sword battle with the brute, but I didn’t seem to have any choice. I yanked my bastard sword clear of the scabbard on my back and held it securely in my left hand, balancing myself on my staff with my right hand. The soldier stopped and stared, for my blade was longer than his and seemed much more formidable. The fact that the man wielding it was significantly less of a threat than he was had not yet entered into his mind.
The father had grabbed up his wife. He was not even attempting to have her walk. Instead he was cradling her in his arms. One of the three men had lifted the child, whose gaze still seemed focused on me. I was reasonably sure I was imagining it.
The soldier realized that the others were attempting to flee. His particular focus was upon the child as he shouted, “Stop where you are!”
I took that moment to attack, charging forward as fast as my leg would allow and swinging my blade.
He saw me coming and, bringing his sword up, intercepted the blow. The blades clanged together loudly, the sound ringing through the stable. The cow mooed in alarm, or perhaps just irritation, and the donkey brayed as another one of the three men pulled it along. Obviously it belonged to one of the three of them, or perhaps to the new father and mother.
He came at me then, and as I surmised, he was in far better shape than I was. I backpedalled as quickly as I could, managing to deflect his assaults. And then, in a particularly low point in my career of self-defense, he struck my blade with such force that it caused my sword to ricochet and strike me in the head. I stumbled and fell.
Quickly he turned to pursue the fleeing people, and that was his mistake. I still had my staff, and I shoved it forward so that it caught between his legs and tripped him up. He hit the ground, landing hard on his elbows.
I slammed the staff forward with as much force as I could muster. The dragon’s head slammed into his and it landed with a most satisfying thud. The soldier gasped, his head clearly reeling.
I sat up and quickly twisted the staff in the middle. It split into two handheld batons, and I lunged forward, swinging my left hand. It struck the soldier and he fell backwards. He caught himself and tried to force himself to sit up. The baton in my right hand lashed out and caught him from the opposite direction. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped backwards.
Quickly I snapped the staff back together again. It clicked into a single device and I used it to haul myself to my feet as quickly as possible.
I knew one thing of an absolute certainty: I had to get the hell out of there. There was no way I was going to allow myself to be captured because they would most certainly kill me as soon as look at me. I had half-blinded one soldier and knocked the second unconscious. If they captured me, I would not be long for the world.
I turned quickly to leave the stable and that was when the frying pan slammed across my head.
I fell backwards, the staff rolling out of my hand. I hit the ground and lay there, staring up at nothing.
Then something came into my view.
It was the attendant. He was glaring down at me.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
And I blacked out.
Chapter 3 The Rama Lama Ping Pong
Slowly the darkness began to lift. There was a bit of light filtering in through somewhere that warmed my face, which meant that I’d been unconscious for a while since daytime had resumed.
I started to sit up and the world swirled around me. It caused me to wretch for a few moments before pulling myself back together again. I managed to sit up and look around. Much to my lack of surprise, I was in a cell.
There were sigils written upon the wall in my language and I immediately was able to discern that past prisoners had scribbled them there. They were not especially heartening. They said cheerful things such as “Prepare for doom” and “All who read this will die” and “The Rama shows no mercy.” Yes, very comforting and not at all helpful in settling my jangled nerves.
I rubbed the back of my head and felt a lump growing there. How wonderful. I glanced around the cell and saw that it too had a dirt floor. That was certainly popular enough hereabouts, although I didn’t know for certain where hereabouts was.
There was a small window on the far side of the cell. Sun was filtering through it. There were no bars over it, but it was much too narrow for any living being to slide through. A foot wide and six inches high. Standing on my toes, I was able to bring my eyes up to it and peer outward.
I was accustomed to cells being in the lowest rooms of any structure. That was not the case here. I was at least two hundred feet in the air, looking down upon the whole of Giro. I had apparently been removed from Jeruslahem to this place, wherever this place was. It was certainly impressively high. I stretched my memory back to when I had first arrived and gazed upon the city, endeavoring to remember what structures had towered so high into the air. None were coming readily to mind, but even if I were able to muster the image in my head, it would not do me any good. I didn’t know which buildings were which or what they represented.
At least I wasn’t handcuffed. That was positive. Not only that, but I still had all my possessions. My sword was back in its sheath and my staff was lying against the floor a short distance away. I limped over and picked it up. The entire situation was extraordinarily strange. They had me cold; they could have killed me back at the stable. Why had they dragged me, unconscious, back to Giro?
I moved around the cell for a time, trying to see if there were some means of escaping, but nothing was presenting itself. There was no lock upon the door keeping it closed. If there had been, I might have been able to pick it. Instead the door was some quite strong wood, and it was barred on the other side by something that was keeping it shut: a solid slab of wood, perhaps. I pulled at the door experimentally but it did not appear to be the slightest bit interested in moving.
And so I remained imprisoned, wondering if I was going to be left there to starve to
death. Time passed as it has a habit of doing, and then there was finally some noise from the door. I had been sitting at the time but now got to my feet and waited. If they were going to walk in and execute me, at least I would be standing.
The door opened wide and four soldiers strode in. Their faces were locked into sour expressions. It seemed as if they would indeed be perfectly content to cut me down right where I was. They all had their swords in their hands as if expecting me to attempt to engage them in battle. I stared at them instead and actually managed a small smile. “How lovely to see you,” I said with false cheer. “And what can I do for you?”
The foremost one pointed his sword at me and said, “You will follow us.”
“To where?”
“To where we lead you.”
I shrugged as if I were utterly indifferent over what was to happen to me. “Lead the way, then.”
I followed them as they led me down the hallway.
It was different hallways than any I’d ever seen. The walls were not bricks, or at least did not seem made of bricks. Instead they were solid sheets of some manner of masonry, all of them pale brown, as if they had constructed from the desert itself. There were glyphs everywhere. I glanced at them as quickly as I could. As near as I could determine, they demarcated the history of the families who had ruled in Rogypt for who-knew-how-many years. Everything was there: births, marriages, deaths, war and conquest. They certainly seemed to enjoy dwelling upon their past.
I had never been much for that. Thinking about the things I had done in my life never brought me much joy, so I tended to dwell mostly upon the future in general and specifically how I might continue to survive it. Nevertheless, it was certainly quite the accomplishment to have so much of one’s history decorating the wall in that fashion.
I was ushered into a vast room and stopped in amazement. It was clear what this place was the moment I set foot in it. It was the throne room of whoever the person was who was the ruler of Rogypt. The Rama Lama, I think they called him. The room was extremely opulent, but not opulent in the way that I was accustomed. Throne rooms in my old world had been festooned with tapestries, ornate drapes, statues, that sort of thing.
This place was filled with gold. Gold in the statues, gold in the decorations, gold in the lace, gold everywhere. If the sun had been coming in at the right angle, the reflections would have burned out my eyeballs. I had never in my life witnessed so much gold in one place. It was staggering, breathtaking. Where in the name of the gods had they managed to acquire all this damned gold? It was astounding. If I could have walked out of there with a couple of bowls, I would have been set for life. It was beyond all my dreams of avarice.
All the concerns of the Shews flew from my head. The commands of the burning bush were no longer of any relevance. The only thing I cared about in the world at that moment was the fortune that surrounded me. Whoever had this much gold must have cared for nothing else that the world could possibly offer him. Why would he? He was surrounded by a king’s ransom…no, all the kings. Every king in the world could be ransomed for the amount of fortune that was surrounding me.
I had stopped walking and was brutally reminded of the fact by a guard shoving me in the back. I stumbled forward and caught myself with the aid of my staff before firing him an angry glance. He did not appear the slightest bit intimidated by the prospect of my wrath.
Suddenly they dropped to their knees. I stood there in confusion for a moment, not understanding the abrupt display of reverence. Then one of the guards near me struck me in the knees with a swipe of his hand. “Down!” he snarled. “Genuflect!”
I had never been much for bending of knee, but in this instance there seemed to be no way around it. So I dropped to one knee, still clutching the staff so that I would be able to rise to my feet should the need come up. The others were staring intently at the floor, but I reasoned that since they were doing that, none of them could be watching me. Instead I gazed up toward the throne, for I had assumed that the person who typically sat there was about to arrive, and hence all the kneeling.
I was utterly astounded by what I saw.
A young boy was making his way to the throne.
And he was lame in his right leg.
It was not a birth defect like mine, that much I could discern. Instead he had clearly sustained some manner of injury that had never healed properly. It was deeply scarred and I could even see signs that infection was still present. It was really quite awful to look at, but since he was clothed in a short toga that came to above his knees, it was impossible not to see.
He could not have been more than twelve or thirteen years old. His face was round and immature, and yet there was something in his eyes that indicated he had seen far more things than any thirteen-year-old boy should be required to witness. I had no idea what color his hair was because as near as I could tell, it had been shaved off. It almost made him look more like a statue than a human being.
He did not have a staff. Instead he was walking with a cane. It was gold, of course, but I suspected it was not solid because gold is quite heavy. A boy would not have been able to wield a cane made of pure gold. Hell, I likely would not have been able to manage it. So the odds were that it was instead simply adorned with gold on the exterior. Either way, even his walking implement was worth a fortune.
He made his way to the throne and slowly lowered himself into it. Moments later, a young man entered as well. He seemed to be about twice as old as the youngster, and his skin was the same dark caste as more or less everyone else in Rogypt. His hair was likewise shaved off and I wondered if perhaps he was the boy’s hair stylist. There was a sinister look to him that I could not quite articulate. He had not spoken a word to me, or to anyone, yet I could already determine just from gazing upon him that he was not to be trusted. It was a disconcerting concern, but there it was.
Finally he spoke: “All hail the Rama Lama.”
“All hail,” echoed everyone in the room save for me. I did not think that it was required that I repeated what everyone else was saying. It was enough that I was kneeling.
“What have we today?” the boy said. It was the first words that he had uttered. He sounded bored. My fate was in the hands of a bored young lad. It was tempting to simply pull out my sword and throw myself upon it. It would save me some time.
The lead guard, or at least the one who I assumed was the lead, stood up and bowed once more to the young Rama Lama. “This man,” he said, and pointed to me as if I were not obvious enough, “has committed crimes against us. He speared out the eye of one guard, downed a second, and all to help a couple of Shews violate the law.”
That pronouncement seemed to capture the Rama’s attention. “Which law?”
“She gave birth to a son. The soldiers were simply trying to do their duty.”
Normally when a ruler is informed that a law has been violated, his reaction is predictable. He is typically officious over the notion that someone has taken it upon himself to act in a way other than what he and his advisors have conscripted.
That was not the Rama’s reaction at all. Instead, although he did the best he could to cover it, it was clear that this piece of news clearly scared him. Youths are not especially good at covering their emotions in general, and fright was nearly insurmountable to tamp down. The Rama tried but his eyes were wide and his voice actually trembled slightly. “Where are they? Where is the baby?”
“Our sources say that they have fled Rogypt.”
“Fled? You are certain?”
“Quite certain, Rama. They were apparently nomads simply wandering through.”
Upon receiving that information, the Rama slowly sank back into his chair. Relief clearly swept through him. “If they have departed Rogypt, then they are no longer of any concern.”
“Are you sure, Rama? We have men pursuing them even as we speak…”
The Rama waved off the notion. “You need not concern yourself. If they are not present here, then there i
s nothing to worry about. They are not the individuals for whom the law was written.”
I was having trouble tracking what the Rama was talking about. Of course, I should have said nothing. I was on trial for my life. Except I was not really; I knew they were going to kill me, or at least attempt to. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have some contrarian ideas to oppose that notion, but I needed to handle one thing at a time. So while everyone else was cowering or being supremely deferential, I drew myself to my full height and said, “Then for whom was the law written?”
There were gasps from throughout the court. Courtiers had managed to file in once the Rama showed up, and it seemed to my discerning eye that they were there mostly to react to whatever was going on. They certainly did their jobs as they all seemed to inhale air simultaneously upon hearing my question.
“Quiet, you!” snarled the nearest guard.
I ignored him since his opinion was of no relevance to me. “I was simply wondering what sort of brute makes a law for the slaying of helpless infants and what the thinking might have been.”
That was it for the guard. He drew back his fist and swung it at me.
I stepped back and countered the blow with my staff. His fist glanced off the sturdy wood and I immediately slammed the staff’s dragon head forward. I didn’t bother to snap out the tongue because I wasn’t out to kill anyone. But the dragon head struck an extremely solid blow to his skull. The guard staggered and I slammed a second shot that sent him tumbling to the ground.
Then I was hit from behind before I could move to prevent it. I stumbled forward and fell to the ground, landing on my hands and knees. I blinked several times to shake off the sensation of the world spinning around me.
“Stand him up,” the Rama ordered. I was hauled to my feet and managed to focus my gaze upon him. He scowled at me and demanded, “Who dares to question why our laws were written?”