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| AEGEUS |
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| DWENGZUR |
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| OLAVIGEMAR |
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| GRAND MARHALL GUSTAV ERLING |
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| LORD SHONNE GULBRAND |
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| SVEIN AND TEUQUOB |
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| STARK'S MOTHER AND FATHER |
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| INGRIT (ANORA) AND PRINCE SHON ALRIC THERRAN VALAMIR |
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| BRANDT DUSTIN |
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| DUAN |
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| NERAZI |
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| SOUKO YERU |
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| SVEIN AND TEUQUOB |
In the small hours of the
night when all were fast asleep and not a soul stirred, Duan quietly rose from
his bed and stole into Souko Yeru’s room.
With contempt in his eyes, he severed the head with one merciless stroke,
without waking Souko’s companion that shared his bed. Instantly the pillow and the bedding were
dyed crimson red. With the coolness of
the assassin, Duan wiped his sword’s blade clean on the quilt and then withdrew
from the room, not disturbing the cat sleeping just outside their door.
Slipping back to his room, Duan began packing the supplies and some of his belongings; Brandt, fortunately a light sleeper, jumped from his bed with a start and very much afraid to be left behind, hastily followed suit. Nothing untoward in Duan’s manner warned Brandt of the murder. Since Duan never had breakfast, another hardship which Brandt was forced to bear; the two quickly and quietly descended the stairs and made their way to the stables in back.
Riding two fine chargers,
one black and one red-brown, Brandt and Duan passed quickly through the
deserted streets well before cock’s crow, as the day’s first light began
breaking. When they cleared the town’s
gates, which were almost never closed or locked, they encountered a level
stretch of wild fields stretching out into the distance where they changed into
wavelets of low-lying hills, some decked with trees, some stripped bare to
supply the town with fuel and building material.
“Look,” Brandt pointed
(his riding crop) off into the hills, “another early riser; I wonder who he
could be?” After fixing his gaze on the
back of the rider, he nodded his head and answered his own question. “But of course, it’s that remarkable youth I
conversed with at the tavern yesterday.
The one called Audun Colden, the false lead I told you about.” Frowning,
he looked at his companion. But Duan, appearing somewhat distracted paid scant
attention to the rest of Brandt’s words.
His eyes narrowed to slits, as he suspiciously followed the stranger’s
advance in the far distance. Inwardly he
questioned a premonition, tinged with misgivings that had suddenly gripped his
heart. He vacillated on whether to
pursue this Audun person or not, when just then Svein’s horse suddenly reared
then galloped forward at lightning speed.
Within minutes both rider and horse had been reduced to a mere speck,
leaving only a long trail of dust behind them.
When the dust completely
settled and their vision was no longer obscured, the lone horseman had totally disappeared. Duan knew that there was a fork in the road
up ahead, with each branch rounding the hills in different directions. With the gale force winds fast sweeping away
(obliterating) any existing tracks, they would doubtless squander unwarranted
time before construing with measure of certainty the stranger’s path. Better to follow this other, more tangible
lead; than tracking this youth on the sole basis of a hunch.
~
With the incessant wind
moaning in his ears and flailing away at his face, Svein had held tightly to
the reins, anxious only about the security of the bundles. After several hours of riding at this speed,
however, his stomach threatened to discharge the breakfast the innkeeper had
pressed on him. When Fiery Comet finally
slowed down, well after clearing the hills and the forest beyond them, Svein
found himself once more in the wilderness, far removed from any civilization,
not even a lonely woodcutter’s hut.
“Whoa… What brought this
on?” Svein pulled on the reins and, presently, managed to halt the steed. Then leaning over, he affectionately patted
Fiery Comet’s neck and asked,
“What was wrong, dear friend? What made you hasten so, without my
command?”
But, lacking human speech,
Fiery Comet neighed and whinnied, his hooves churning the ground twice to make
him-self understood. He was already covered in pearls of perspiration and did
not need this added exertion.
As it were, Svein, with
his keen senses, had already picked up the presence of the two riders in
pursuit. Furthermore, he’d discerned the reason for the horse’s initiative;
still, he could not resist teasing Fiery Comet.
“Up to your old tricks, I see.” he smiled as
he dismounted.
“All right then, let us rest for a bit before
having another go at it.” Still
chuckling, he led the horse to the fast-flowing river.
Securing his footing, he
squatted, cupped his hands, and started to drink the water and wash his
face. The wind puffed up his sleeves and
flailed his loosened hair furiously against his wet face, obscuring his vision.
He heard Fiery Comet’s
approach but ignored it.
The horse, annoyed at Svein’s earlier
taunting, stopped quite close to Svein’s side but, instead of quenching his
thirst, in one quick move he simply shoved Svein headlong into the river.
Showing his teeth, Fiery Comet just whinnied
in reply.
“Oh well, you did me a
favor. I needed cooling off.” Good naturedly forgiving the horse for his
insolence, Svein then dove in and around and had an exhilarating few more laps
of swim.
Fiery Comet quenched his
thirst despite the interruptions when Svein drew near, expecting certain
retaliation from him, then contentedly set to feeding on the lush green grass
flanking the riverbank. He had worked up
quite an appetite from all that exertion.
At last, having cleared the sky of clouds, the wind died down and now with the midday sun blazing in all its glory, once more began to scorch the earth’s surface, sending all frolicking wild inhabitants of nature into the shade. Emerging from the water by then chilled to the bone, Svein (shed) divested his wet clothes and hung them on the lower branches to dry, then spread out on the soft, already drooping grass for some warmth. Soon the heat proved uncomfortable for him however, and he joined Fiery Comet for a well-earned respite under an ancient tree that had spread its generous shade to accommodate them both.
~
Svein’s sooner than
anticipated safe return, delighted both Stark and Teuquob. This short parting had endeared prospective
couple still more to each other. The
bashful exchange between Svein and Teuquob barely contained the bursting
affection and joy each carried in their heart for the other. The great warmth and love that flooded the
room gladdened Stark’s heart, but the air of contentment was overshadowed by
Stark’s discernment that something unusual had transpired with Svein on this
journey. Nevertheless, Stark’s reserve
constrained him, and forestalled his inquiry until the following morning when
they could converse in private out of earshot of Teuquob.
At the conclusion of their
routine martial practice, before Svein could find the words to broach his
concern, Stark sat himself down quietly on a fallen tree trunk, and then
motioned Svein to do the same, after which he acknowledged his perception and
encouraged Svein to speak his mind without reserve.
“Uncle, does the name
Brandt Dustin mean anything to you?” Svein burst forth with his question. He did not expect Stark to know Brandt, but
perhaps the family name Dustin could recall to Stark’s mind an old enemy. Svein knew his uncle had an impeccable
memory.
“No, I know no one by that
name.” Stark obligingly replied then, affixing his questioning eyes on Svein,
patiently waited for an explanation.
“Then, as I supposed, he
must have given me a false name.” Svein muttered to himself then, mindful of
his rude behavior, he quickly apologized and related the entire encounter with
Brandt that night at the tavern. As he
did this, he kept his uncle under scrutiny, searching for the answers to his
silent questions, but much to his disappointment, Stark’s expression underwent
no change.
Just then, for a fleeting
moment, Svein thought that he had detected and inkling of a grave look that had
registered in his uncle’s eyes.
Encouraged by this, he pushed further to get results. Falling on his knees before his uncle he, in
an emotional outburst, implored Stark for enlightenment. What measure of importance was Lord Asger
Thuxur Marrog Zhon to him? Was his uncle
bound to this Lord by loyalty and respect, out of friendship or fealty? Since, admittedly, the other of the twin
swords was in Stark’s possession, how had Stark come by it? Svein’s entreaties had erupted in a ceaseless
flow of emotion, leaving Stark no word in edgewise.
Stark’s face flushed with
anger as he sprung to his feet, freezing Svein’s next set of questions in his
mouth.
“Such insolence, how dare
you act so weak?” he stormed at Svein.
“Get up at once!”
In obedience Svein
complied but an uninvited resentment flooded his heart. Surely Uncle owes me some
explanation. Why must I abstain from
raising these questions? Why is Uncle being so obstinate and
closed-minded? I’m old enough to be wed
in two days’ time hence, can I not then be trusted to assimilate and then
confront any situation, however grave, however shocking?
Instead (of airing these however,) he
apologized to his uncle for speaking out of turn.
Stark had anon (almost
immediately after) regretted his outburst and now softened his disposition; he
nodded his head and stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then, after a momentary silence, which seemed
more like an hour to Svein, he ejected in a more conciliatory voice, “Svein, it
is with good reason that I must insist on you showing more restraint.”
He again paused at length for emphasis. “Please expend more effort to curtail your
curiosity. The knowledge you seek will
be imparted to you at the proper time, when I shall be better disposed.”
“I will refrain from
making such transgressions, Uncle.” Svein acquiesced in earnest.
“Good. Let us now forget all about it and return
without delay, there are a lot of details to be seen to before a proper
marriage ceremony could transpire.” So,
saying, Stark started towards the bath cabin.
As it happens, ever since
Teuquob’d come to live with them, for the sake of modesty, certain routines had
to be altered or entirely changed- one such was the fact that they no longer
indulged in bathing in the nearby stream during the hot summer months.
As they washed beyond the
partition Svein recalled Brandt’s reference to the Yukorskyi fighting style and
briefly requested Stark to instruct him in it the next time they practiced,
believing his uncle to be the master of all existing fighting styles. In past, from bits of information received
from his uncle during their casual conversations, he had concocted his own
theories about his uncle’s past vocation, deeming him to be anything from a
scholar with military prowess, to a military advisor, instructor, minister of
war, field marshal or simply a general in the imperial army. His uncle’s qualifications certainly attested
to the validity of any of these titles.
The absence of response from Stark constrained Svein to remain silent
and his thoughts once more reverted to Teuquob.
In truth, as Stark had
emptied the buckets of cold water over his head letting the ripples course down
his body, in uncharacteristic dissociation from the present, he’d begun seeing
in his mind’s eye (envision) the unfolding pictures and scenes from the pages
of his past. Subsequently, as he rubbed his body clean, he absentmindedly
caressed the stump of his severed arm; at that juncture he was transported to
the time of a singular incident that had changed his life forever.
He was on a tall,
precipitous cliff, its summit crowned in frigid, feathered mists. At this high
elevation, the thin atmosphere made one lightheaded. Still clad in his court
gown, the child held in his arm and sword in hand, he was scattering his
assailants to either side of him like petals in the wind. Though he had always fought with two swords,
being indisposed, the other rested in its sheath.
He fought on foot for his horse had long been
lost to him, brutally maimed then forced off the cliff into the abyss. He was one against many, and their numbers
could not be extinguished.
With such odds stacked against him, despite
his excellent prowess he was nevertheless forced into a defensive position,
with his formidable foe, the one man who equaled, if not surpassed his own
skill in swordsmanship, Grand Marshall Gustav Erling, close at his heels.
Brilliant tactician Stark
had retreated up a narrow goat’s path that allowed only one man at a time to
ascend; the Marshall’s army unable to flank Stark, fidgeted helplessly behind
the Marshal like the long body of a serpent several miles in length, swords
drawn, ready and anxious for a chance to fight.
Grand Marshal Gustav
Erling clashed swords so fiercely with Stark that cold, blue streaks of
lightning cracked at every meeting of their blades. Stark was again forced to retreat to still
higher and higher ground to escape the Marshall’s deadly strikes, many of which
were directed at the innocent child in Stark’s embrace.
“Why pursue this hopeless
course. Unless you sprout wings and fly away, there is no place you can run to
for safety. Surrender now and I will
show you mercy.”
“And the child, will you
extend that mercy to the child?”
“I’m sure something can be
arranged.”
“Not good enough!”
The life and death
struggle thus had raged on ceaselessly for more than half a day on that
ascending goat’s path. At times the trail was so tapered that Stark’s footing
barely stable, dislodged rocks at the edge of the precipice and pieces of
earthen debris, giving way, tumbled to the depths to be swallowed up in the
fast-flowing river.
Once more, Grand Marshall
Gustav Erling made a lightning thrust and again Stark parried it with equal
agility. Despite the expanded effort and the unwavering intensity neither of
them seemed to be abating in strength or stamina. Neither of them would succumb
to defeat or capitulate.
In order to break the stalemate, the most
renowned marksman, who had been led close to the front of the serpent, now took
careful aim and loosed his arrow. But
Stark nimbly deflected it with his sword letting the shaft glance off the
cliff, and then with incredible dexterity he intercepted every one of Gustav
Erling’s subsequent strikes and lunges.
With agile sideways turn,
Stark escaped the next lethal arrow, just in time to parry Marshall’s
sword. At that point a newly loosened
shaft, taking flight, missed its mark and by providence, pierced Marshall’s arm
instead, rendering his left side momentarily useless.
As he cursed them, with his eyes riveted on
Stark, at lightning speed he yanked the arrow out and continued with his
attack; he would be damned if he let a little thing like this get in the way of
capturing his nemesis.
Interlocked in fierce combat with Grand Marshall Gustav Erling, Stark smiled wryly. Now at least they were equally matched. Moreover, this blunder would discourage the elite marksmen from discharging any more arrows, let along using poisoned arrows.
More time elapsed with the
exchange of blows ensuing with all its ferocity. Then, as if fate had to
(intercede) play its hand, the child squirmed and let out a sharp cry at the
very instant more earth partially dislodged (gave way) under Stark’s feet. Jumping to safety and steadying himself, with
his attention temporarily distracted (sidetracked) by the child, he’d
unavoidably presented a singular opportunity to his ardent foe.
In that fleeting moment,
having failed to intercept Gustav Erling’s deadly strike, the Marshal’s blade
sliced clean through bone and flesh severing Stark’s arm just below the elbow.
That scene– with the hand
still gripping the hilt of the sword, arching over the cliff and spiraling
downward into the depths- had played out in slow motion a hundred times since,
in Stark’s mind.
At present, blood spurted
from the stump dying his light blue garment a crimson red. Pressing the child closer to his chest, he
turned and fled towards the summit, as retreat now became his only viable
option.
With roaring laughter,
Marshall Gustav Erling pursued Stark, shouting his demands for Stark to cease
his running and to surrender, with intermittent words of assurance that the
child would not come to any serious harm.
But Stark was not swayed, for he knew only too well the cruelty of
Marshall Gustav Erling, and how he could not be relied upon for mercy, despite
any dispensed promises of amnesty. His
own salvation was of little consequence to Stark, but the child’s safety was
paramount, and in keeping with that faith so many had sacrificed so much
already, to afford this precious being a chance at life… How can he let all
that be in vain?
Reaching the end of the path, he halted, for
sheer rocks rising ahead made any advance impossible. Left defenseless, with nowhere else to
retreat, Stark had to make a quick decision.
Though providence
(destiny) presented this paltry chance, if any, of survival, it was still a
preferable alternative to surrendering to that treacherous Gustav Erling, to in
the end die ignominiously and by so doing, give satisfaction to that
bloodthirsty usurper.
Determinedly thus, with
the child clutched to his torso, and before Marshall Gustav Erling could reach
him, he’d hurled himself and the child over the sheer cliff’s edge into space.
Gustav
Erling had stamped his feet and cursed furiously in Stark’s imagination.
And so it came to pass that both Stark and the child
were airborne and with winds as their wings they floated in descent,
providentially averting the jagged rock protrusions.
The Gods were
indeed merciful to them on that day and after some while (of flight) they
plunged unscathed into the fast-flowing depths of the frigid river.
Quickly recovering from the shock of the cold, Stark
still clinging to the child, using all his might had swum upwards to clear the
surface of the water. But despite his resolute effort to swim towards the bank,
both he and the child had been wildly tossed about and swept far, far away by
the maddening, churning currents of the river.
In danger of drowning himself, Stark (all during this
ordeal) had held the child tightly against his upper torso, pressing the
child’s cheek against his, as he tried with concentrated effort to keep both
their heads above rushing water.
Inwardly his
heart had been laden with concern and unwanted dread, for the infant’s vital
signs appeared so weak, his conscious state tentative and hardly a sound, not
even a gurgle, had emerged in a long while from the poor thing. Just then
however, the most welcome piercing cry both assured and comforted Stark. In the interim, the tears of gratitude that
flowed down his cheeks quickly got wiped away by the foamy waters flailing
against it.
Despite the loss of blood, he strove hard not to lose
consciousness and steer his body towards the weaker currents, the eddies where
they would stand a better chance of escaping the enormous falls, whose sound
now roared in his ears.
Succeeding in this task, Stark let himself be swept
away by the secondary currents, their heads from time to time bobbing in an out
of the foamy turbulence. Had Stark not
been a champion swimmer, he and the infant would have surely perished in the
torrent.
Subsequently, they were carried over the lesser falls,
escaping the main cataract, and dumped into a basin from which the river
meandered onto more level ground.
Further expended energy enabled Stark to pull himself and the child to
safety on the muddy bank of the river.
At once Stark set to binding his severed arm with
strips cut from his undergarments and stopped the incessant bleeding. No sooner had he completed this task than,
already pale and seeing stars before his eyes, he’d collapsed against his will
into a state of deep unconsciousness.
When he revived (regained his senses), it was already
twilight. Cast onto this deserted
embankment, the child’s bawling was the only sound that interrupted the
enveloping silence of the surrounding air. The eerie atmosphere, in fact, was
quite unnerving, foreshadowing the ominous future. Quickly pressing the famished, bawling infant
to his chest for warmth, he’d allowed him to suck on his finger as he rose to
survey the surroundings.
Casting his eyes on the sky above him, he saw at once
that a severe storm was brewing. There
was no time to waste; he had to secure some form of shelter.
He could barely make out some thatched roofs among
tall trees beyond the surrounding soaring bulrushes and reeds that flanked the
river on both sides. Without a moment’s
hesitation he delved into the thick vegetation, the child now secured at his
back, pushing his way towards the thatch cottage where he hoped to acquire some
information as to his whereabouts and obtain proper sustenance for the
baby. Racing to the spot, mindful of the
impending storm, he paid scant attention to the stabbing pain of his legs,
compounded further by the thrashing, slashing of the sharp edged, thorny
undergrowth. But he had underestimated
the distance, for halfway there came a loud ‘Crack’ as the ominous sky tore
open with crashing thunder. Just then another bolt of lightning found its mark,
this time only a few yards away, bringing down an ancient tree which barely
missed them in its fall.
All the while mounting demented winds tossed and
thrashed the willow branches and Stark alike, making Stark quite unsteady on
his feet. ‘Crack, Crack’, again and
again the air was repeatedly split by the peals of thunder and lightning bolts.
Once more they
were drenched, this time by torrential rains which instantly turned the ground
under Stark’s feet into streams of mud.
Slipping and sliding, Stark relentlessly pushed on. Eventually the rain tapered off, but the
night which cast the earth into pitch darkness, with the moon hidden behind
some persistent clouds, presented yet another hindrance to Stark’s advance. Blindly, in part groping about, he led
himself in the general direction of the thatched hut. When he stopped for a moment to catch his
breath, something furry brushed against his leg and nibbled at his feet. Fortunately, a swift kick was all that was
needed to scare it away.
“Would you be
much longer uncle?” Svein’s sudden query snapped Stark from his trance.
“What?
Oh...no. I’ve nearly finished,”
Stark hastily responded. “You go on
ahead, Svein, I’ll be there presently.”
As another bucket of water emptied over his head,
Stark’s thoughts once more reverted to the past.
Overjoyed to learn that the region that the river had
cast him out upon was near the border of one which rested under the authority
of Lord Shonne Gulbrand, he had, from then on, pushed with renewed exuberance
(zeal) towards the Lord’s country estate; this, after he had exchanged his rich
garments with the local peasant’s in order to thwart any or undue suspicion
along the way.
Now, as he slowly dressed, Stark’s thoughts succinctly trailed over the countless hardships and obstacles he had endured and overcame before finally reaching his destination. Recalling his old friend’s warm greeting and the kindness and support he had received, at the risk to Lord Shonne Gulbrand’s own family’s wellbeing and security, Stark’s eyes became moist once more with tears of gratitude and longing. Wiping them away, he slipped on his footwear and hastened towards the main cabin where a hot breakfast now awaited him.
~
When the auspicious day finally arrived, in a proper wedding ceremony with Stark officiating as the master of ceremonies, Svein and Teuquob were duly married (enjoined). After the newlyweds drank together from the paired goblet of matrimony, the three then sat down at the decorated table to partake of a kingly feast and rejoice together as one family. That evening the cabin resounded with the cheerful sounds of laughter and merriment.
Now, Stark had never disclosed to Svein that Teuquob
was of royal descent, lest Svein would feel unworthy of her and raise an
objection to this union. Teuquob, in
accordance with Stark’s decision, had also maintained her silence. Thus, it came about that it was long after
this very night that Svein came to know of the truth, that on this very night
he’d been wed to a beautiful princess.
At the appointed hour, on Stark’s discreet urging, the
newly married couple blushingly withdrew to their specially prepared room to
revel in matrimonial bliss, abandoning themselves to love and tender
ecstasy.
Stark had also retired shortly afterwards, carrying some wine with him to his room. Enveloped in stillness he sat upon the bed, fully clothed, drinking without reserve with the peering moonlight falling through his windowsill, as his only company.
For the first
time in twenty years, he’d allowed himself the pleasure of letting go and
falling into an inebriated stupor.
Gradually, however, as he emptied cup after cup, his happy state of mind
gave way to one of loneliness, followed by one of deep despair.
Unable to stop
the welling tears, he wept as though his heart would break over Ivar Marrog
Zhon ’s fate and the tragic loss of all those whom he had loved.
With his heart in the grip of this bitter desolation,
his mind in desperation gave way to fantasy.
One by one they drifted before his mind’s eye; the
lovely form of his beloved wife dressed in her favorite celadon laced brocade
garment, carrying in her bosom their only son Ivar Marrog Zhon , a precious
infant. How he’d loved him, how overjoyed he’d been at his birth! He had such aspirations for Ivar Marrog Zhon.
Stark felt his heart would break into a million
pieces. An enormous pain gripped his heart, such inexplicable sorrow surfaced
anew to smother his conscience and soul. But he shook his head and determinedly
checked his bursting emotions. No, he
must not grieve; to do so would infer that he regretted the actions he took!
Looking up, he asked forgiveness then, for his
momentary lapsed sense, for his temporary weakness, and then uttered a silent
heartfelt prayer for his son’s salvation and quick deliverance.
After a time,
to preserve his sanity, he strove to turn his thoughts to the joyful occasion
at hand. He toasted to the newlywed’s wellbeing, whom he also loved very dearly
and to their everlasting, blissful co-existence.
But uninvited,
(unsought,) once more his melancholy returned (resurfaced) and in his heart
wrenching loneliness, now giving rein to fantasy, he envisioned his parents
coming forth to greet him.
His beloved (adapted) sister Ingrit, (also known as Arnora) and her husband, 7th Prince Shon Alric Therran Valamir, and countless other relatives all, donning smiles and mouthing joyful rhetoric streamed in next, to extend their warm felicitations and congratulations to him.
They all came over in their ghostly form to visit him,
filling the small room to the brim. As
they smiled and conversed gaily with him, echoing their familiar mannerisms,
they appeared so real that, more than once, forgetting the truth, he’d stretch
out his hand into the emptiness, to touch them.
Then the steward, appearing at the doorway, announced the arrival of his closest friends, and the family withdrew under various pretexts, leaving him to greet his friends with unrestricted familiarity.
Just as it had been in the past with their happy
gatherings, they chatted and drank merrily, as if these last twenty years had
never happened, with servants shuffling in and out of the room carrying more
drinks, cups and trays filled with all manner of exquisite, choice dishes to
delight their palate.
Suddenly Stark was in his favorite pavilion, amidst
the breathtaking scenery. Built at the
foot of a majestic mountain, the Azure pavilion looked out onto an emerald lake
whose tranquil ripples were etched in brilliant moonlight. The fragrance of the exquisite flowers
carefully planted around the pavilion drifted to assail his and his friend’s
noses.
In this placid
atmosphere they conversed happily as they consumed (downed, drunk) cup after
cup, not stopping until Stark’s eyes drooped in tiredness. Now no longer able to carry on a straight
conversation, he stumbled over his words, causing his guests to break into
waves of laughter and jest; yet they were in no better a state than he. Together they roiled in laughter till they
felt their sides were splitting.
“Enough… ha, ha, ha… that’s enough! Stop jesting, I can’t bear it any
longer!” Kunig, the youngest of the
bunch, pleaded with them to stop with their antics, while clutching his kidney
as he rolled himself into a ball.
“Gentlemen,” at this point the conscientious Lord
Shonne Gulbrand suddenly rose to his feet to announce, “the hour has grown
rather late, and I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”
Then, pointing to Stark, “Look, our host is
tired. Let us take our leave now and
allow him some respite (to gain some rest).
If providence allows it, we will meet again in the not-too-distant
future.”
“I would like to invite all of you to my country
estate in three days’ time. That is, if
it’s agreeable to all.” Chion suddenly suggested, also rising to his feet.
“Excellent.”, all, nodding their heads, voiced their
assent. Then, rising to their feet, one
by one they came over to bid Stark their farewells.
“Please don’t go, I’m all right, really! “Stark,
blushing with shame, cried out within. He strove so hard to rise up, to detain
them a while longer but, as if stymied by an invisible force, try as he might,
to his great consternation he could neither lift his head from his pillow, nor
could he part his lips to utter a single nuance of plea for them to stay.
It was as
though he had been struck down, crushed under tons of earth; all he could
manage instead was to shed tears of regret at their parting, bearing the
knowledge in his heart that they would never meet in this earthly domain again.
When the sun’s burning rays reached his eyes from the
small opening of the window it woke him with a start. He was greatly surprised to learn the
lateness of the hour. Despite the great
heat, however, his head rested on comfortable coolness.
Odd, how did
my pillow get so drenched? He mused as he rose to his feet, forgetting his
previous night’s sorrow.
He hastily washed his face and hands, combed his hair,
put on a clean set of garments, and then went out to greet the newlyweds,
donning a broad smile and a cheerful face.
That late morning the joy that Svein and Teuquob’s
beaming faces brought to him was boundless and renewed his hope for a promising
future.
~
(This concludes The Legend of Nevetsecnuac, Book 5,
The Wedding. The epic story of The Legend
of Nevetsecnuac continues
in the next post, Book 6, The Assassins, Section 1)
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| DUAN Proviso (if) Brandt had entertained any suspicions about Svein during his brief exchange at the Inn, it had all but dissipated by the time they had parted company. After leaving the premises Brandt had made his way through a dark, deserted alleyway towards his lodgings, feeling discontented and a tad angry. When he came upon a dog urinating in a dark corner, to vent his pent-up frustration he fiercely kicked the poor, unfortunate creature in the side of stomach, the force of which slammed the body hard against the brick wall. Picking himself up from the ground, with a painful lame leg, and letting out cries of “yelp, yelp, yelp’ the poor thing scurried away to the best of his ability. This amused Brandt and, temporarily, lightened his mood. Snickering at the dog’s misery, he continued on his way. Brandt, just then turning
a corner, came face to face with Duan, who was also out for a stroll. The latter’s sudden appearance almost
startled Brandt. Duan, well over seven feet
in height, heavy in build with large bones and with a protruding large forehead
which made him even more menacing in appearance, clearly was not a man to be
trifled with. He had long, thick, wavy
hair that cascaded down his shoulders in an unkempt fashion, and his face was
adorned with bushy eyebrows, auburn beard and mustache. In contrast Brandt,
although formidable, looked meek and timid in his stance. His hair was neatly kept in formal style and
his clothes, although disguised to look ordinary, were still superior in
tailoring and material. Flushed, Brandt
hastened to greet Duan, inquired after the latter’s aim, but, meeting no reply
then asked to accompany him on his walk. “Suit yourself;” came the
uncaring, icy response. As they both advanced
through the poorly lit, deserted streets with their path illuminated only by
the occasional scant light escaping from the slits of the window shutters,
Brandt, finding the silence unbearable, for Duan was a man of few words, broke
in and briefly told of his encounter with Audun Colden. At the finish Duan abruptly halted (stayed)
his steps and, turning, cast his dark, piercing eyes on Brandt. Though he appeared to have something specific
in mind, he made no attempt to communicate it to Brandt. Instead, after this brief pause, whereupon he
cast his gaze over the rooftops, he with a venomous wry grin shook his head and
resumed his brisk walk. At least I got his
interest. Brandt mused. Just then, he
was momentarily distracted by a slight noise on the roof of one of the houses
that flanked the street. Seeing that it
was nothing more than a stray cat, he turned to find Duan way ahead of
him. Rushing forward to catch up he then
added, with a degree of arrogance, “But I’m certain that my suspicions were
totally unfounded, or I would not have allowed him to get away so easily. It was all but another false lead.” But he was airing these
words into thin air, for Duan had long since stopped listening to what he
considered, Brandt’s incessant blabbering, unworthy of any riposte. Though these two had been
together for a long time, there existed no regard, sentiment or trust between
them. Duan suspected the other of having
an ulterior motive for wanting to tag along and, under the pretense of being
worn down by the other’s persistence, had allowed Brandt to accompany him. Seeing Brandt as nothing more than prey, a
mouse that had wandered into the trap under his cat’s paw, Duan, with due
patience, waited for him to slip up and reveal his real intent (true
colors). At present he was merely toying
with his meek enemy. Duan was not a native born to this country and no one really knew where he had come from. He had no home or family to speak of. Traveling from place to place, accomplishing difficult tasks where others had failed (found it futile); he had spread his fame far and wide. He excelled in arms and every form of combat. His talents were immeasurable, and he had never met an adversary, however formidable, whom he had not subdued. A boon to any general’s army, a credit to the staff of any noble or sovereign, he had been offered riches beyond anyone’s wildest imagination by the most grateful of patrons seeking his alliance, fidelity or plain old amity. But, undaunted by the trappings of wealth, title or human emotions, he had sustained his solitary way of existence. Keeping in stride, still
agitated, Brandt vented, “Brother, I don’t mean to rile (vex) you, but we have
stayed in this contemptible place far too long.
Forsaking my prior hunch (premonition), I say we should move on. The Empire is vast, and we still have a lot
of ground to cover. Why should we waste
any more of our time here?” “Enough,” Duan glaring at
Brandt ranted, “I’ll decide when it’s time to go. No one is holding you back;
why don’t you just leave then, scram, if you are so impatient!” Brandt’s small hairs
rising in the back of his neck, he was silenced for good. Though fuming inwardly he dared not say
another word. All right, it must be
for some reason that he wanted to stay in this disdainful place longer, in
the end he tried placating himself. Still, what clue is there that has
escaped me and not him? He could not
dispute Duan’s superb ability at tracking the wanted men who had eluded the
best bounty hunters in the country. Only
with his help could Brandt stand the slightest chance of getting his man. Swallowing his resentment, he once more made
his apologies, trying to smooth things between them. Inwardly, however, he seethed with scorn and
sheer unadulterated hatred for Duan.
Cursing and ranting, he wondered how much longer he would have to suffer
such indignity, such humiliation at the hand of this uncouth boor. How far away was that day, when he could
finally at long last, hand (dispense) this arrogant fiend his just desserts?
~ The subsequent day Svein did run into Brandt on the
main street; the latter was in the company of another but, fortunately for
Svein, it was not Duan. As both were
predisposed to their brief, formal greetings were exchanged in passing, without
either of them stopping to converse further. I must conclude my
business at the earliest possible time, before they are wizened to my guise. Svein mused as he entered a modest sized wine shop
that specialized in quality wines.
Another customer, one called Souko Yeru who had the airs of an official,
was being waited on by the disgruntled proprietor Nerazi. This well-dressed client Souko, with his repeated references to the quantities of wine that he was proposing to buy, was arguing fervently against the already discounted price, insisting on receiving still more special consideration from the other. The proprietor Nerazi,
equally adamant in his stand, kept arguing the point that he had already made
more than enough concessions, and that any lower he would be losing money
instead of breaking even. Unconvinced, Souko Yeru
hotly jeered (heckled), “Why don’t you just skim a little more off your fat
profit? You can afford it by any
means. And don’t give me that smile and
that polite talk; I’d rather take the wine instead.” But again, the proprietor
refused to budge, insisting that he was just breaking even. “If you are dissatisfied, sir, you may take
your business elsewhere.”, finally he, in his exasperation, dared the other.
But no one was going anywhere. Their haggling appeared
most comical to Svein, for as the intensity of their argument grew, each
shouted at the other, gesticulating as they did, with their feet furiously
stamping the ground, their arms wildly waving about, their necks outstretched,
almost pecking at each other with their words. Not minding the delay, Svein
quietly stood to the side, prepared to watch with certain amusement, this
comedy of life being played out before him.
He intended to buy only two jars of the recommended wine for the upcoming
festivities, a mere trifle, a drop in the bucket compared to what the official
was ordering. The proprietor, meanwhile,
over his haggling had spotted Svein out of the corner of his eye and so
contrived to free himself from the clutches of this pest, Souko Yeru. By calling out to Luke, to leave what he was
doing and come upstairs at once, he hoped to defer Souko’s order to his
underling and serve a more agreeable looking customer. But, when Luke was a little late in his response the
proprietor snapped, pointing a finger at Svein, “Now look here, Sir, I have
other customers to serve, you know.
Please be reasonable, I really cannot reduce it any further without
losing money.” Souko Yeru, whose back was
to Svein all this time, half turned, in readiness to scoff at this supposed
customer. What greeted his eyes however, the striking exquisiteness of this very attractive youth and his formidable bearing under that seemingly innocuous garment, simply took his breath away and temporarily dumfounded, he simply gawked at Svein. There was something in the manner of latter’s
piercing gaze, that made the back of hairs on Svein’s neck stand on end. Fortunately, at that point in time the
proprietor of the store had timely interceded reverting back the official’s
attention to the matter at hand. The miserly official was most adept at
haggling and besides he was used to always getting his way; understanding this,
the unhappy merchant in the end begrudgingly grumbled out his assent. The assistant Luke, being the beneficiary of
the disgruntled proprietor’s seething vent, now directed his two underlings to
load the wares onto Souko Yeru’s sizeable cart hitched by a solitary horse. The
stout servant of the official’s managed the rains of the horse and kept the
animal at bay till swiftly the full load was transferred on board. Only when the money had changed hands did the
proprietor, careful to conceal it from the Official, heaved a deep sigh of
relief. Souko Yeru, who inspected
each jar carefully before it was loaded, had insisted on the owner’s presence
and undivided attention. When the laden
cart finally pulled away with the Official sitting beside his groom furiously
flailing the poor horse, the disgruntled proprietor then shaking his head and
mumbling curse words under his breath, made his way back into the shop, with the
help trailing close behind. In that mayhem, everyone, save for the astute clerk Luke had forgotten Svein’s presence. White the loading of the cart was going on outside, Luke respectfully asking Svein’s indulgence, he’d politely offered Svein a seat and a complimentary wine then gone back to tending his books. Upon his entry to the shop
and noting Svein, the proprietor Nerazi abruptly checked his tongue. Quickly wiping away the excess perspiration
from his forehead and palms, a congenial smile on his lips, he at once rushed
to cordially extend his greetings to Svein and his apologies for the
unavoidable delay. When Svein
reciprocated his greetings in turn and they were both after being served fresh
choice wine, were comfortably seated across from each other, Narazi then, in an
unhurried manner, asked Audun ’s (Svein’s) pleasure. Since there were several varieties of wine
recommended by Stark, Svein stated his requirement and politely deferred the
choice to the owner. Highly pleased and eager
to boast of his extended knowledge, the proprietor Nerazi embarked on a lengthy
list of his reserves, the distinct varieties and the particulars of taste,
aroma and body for each wine, extrapolating the details to the point of boredom
with an inexhaustible zeal. It took diplomacy on Svein’s part to hasten
the proprietor’s speech to its conclusion without giving offense. Concealing his annoyance, Svein thanked
Nerazi for his trouble and gave his approval of the suggested choice. “Very good…you’ve made a
decidedly good choice indeed! You’ll be
pleased, just wait and see.” his face beaming, the proprietor Nerazi assured
Svein, at the same time congratulating himself on his expertise. Upon being quoted the price, Svein promptly
produced the sum from his wallet and presented it to the owner. Nerazi, used to his customers continually
haggling over the price, for it was the accepted norm in this practice, was now
shamed by Svein’s dignified and polite way of doing business and voluntarily
reduced the amount. At the conclusion of the
transaction, as Svein made his way out of the door, Nerazi shook his head and
heaved a deep sigh then aired his wish to clerk Luke, “How I wish that all my
customers were like that young man Audun.
How much easier and more pleasurable my transactions would be. Oh, then I could truly enjoy this
profession.” “Imagine; he wants to
skin people and do it with ease, too!” Luke indignantly grumbled under his breath. As quirk of fate would have it, Souko Yeru was lodged in the same posh inn as that of Brandt and Duan. Fortunately for Souko, however, the two had been kept far too busy up till now to dine at the same hour as him and so they had never met. However paradoxically, while Svein was having an uneventful dinner at his modest lodgings on this night’s eve, these three were converged to have repasts at the same locale. Both Brandt and Duan
seated at the far corner were in a foul mood, having failed to turn up any
leads, and they ate and drank in morose silence. Dour Duan contemplated leaving this town
perhaps as early as the following morning. Souko Yeru, at another
table and having consumed more than his share of wine, began being rowdy as
usual and was causing quite a disturbance.
Seething in hatred over one named Zianko, he talked incessantly in his
grating, sometimes high-pitched voice about the so-called extortion feats he
had been forced to bear. As Souko Yeru
became more intoxicated his mood turned sourer and he began pouring out his
grievance so vehemently it soured the wine in Brandt’s throat. It was not clear
how Duan felt, his expression had not changed. Souko was in the company
of a great many friends and associates. Law enforcement officials all in his
pay had affronted him familiar sense of security and ultimately resultant
brazen conduct. Subsequently as he dawned still more wine, Souko’s mood had mellowed,
but then whenever one of his companions drawing close cracked an uncouth joke
or some other vulgar piece of tidbit news, he uproariously laughed as he
pounded his fist on the table with reckless abandon. Further affront to common decency, his companions
would turn a blind eye to his occasional shameless groupings under the table of
the fair youth seated by his side. “What a beauty he was,
too!” Souko Yeru ‘s tongue loosened, he began narrating loutishly the boorish
details of his latest lewd escapade with an unlikely detainee, in the course of
his supposed official business. Licking his chops, he grinned at his captive
audience. “Young and tender he
was!!!!” Goaded on by those sharing his
table, he then began describing the gory details that had in the end resulted
in the other’s suicide. “Pity, pity it was too…” He pretended remorse,
“I ask you why he would go on and do such a stupid thing?” His vulgar speech and
crass descriptions had annoyed Brandt immensely. Still asking for trouble, intoxicated Souko
next left his own table and moseyed across the room to the table next to Brandt
and Duan’s, making it more difficult still for them to ignore his obnoxious
presence. From where he was seated
Souko Yeru raised his cup to them in greeting but met with only a cold
regard. Not accustomed to such rude
rebuff, unwisely Souko began nursing a hatred for the two strangers. Instead of minding his own business, he dared,
as the saying goes: “to pull the tiger’s whiskers”. Paying scant attention to the advice of his
fellow diners, he kept snipping away at the two behind a cowardly facade of
aimless swearing and dared to vent his anger and save face. When the well-meaning
associates cautioned him to lower his voice and choose his words circumspectly,
he peevishly retorted, “Is this not a public place? Those who don’t like the sound of my voice can
scram!” This last insolence had
sealed Souko’s fate. Duan’s face
darkened a shade and those less inebriated or more perceptive felt a sudden
malevolent chill in the air sweeping over them as same time morbid, dire
misgivings stirred within their innards.
Dark, foreboding sentiment loomed over the room and even those
formidable law enforcement officers quivered to the marrow of their bones as if
a blood curdling venomous reptile had slithered up against their skin. But it was Duan’s hand
slowly steering towards his sword that alerted Brandt to the gravest imminent
danger. Wishing to avoid yet another
carnage, he quickly placed his own hand over Duan’s and in a (placating,) conciliatory
voice, whispered, “Later, brother, later.”
Duan threw a murderous
look at Brandt then jumped irately up from his seat, his face red with fury. This action caused quite a
stir. Many froze in their seats, held
their breath and waited for the blow to fall.
Others, ordinary folk finding their feet, jostled towards the door. Waiters began clearing tables of plates and
cups and other breakables despite the protests of several robust, competent law
enforcement officers excelling in arms, who erroneously assumed, striking
jointly they would be up to the challenge. Poised for assault, they
began rising from their seat; nevertheless, a cursory glance from Duan was
enough to purge all courage and send their terrified souls to flight. Duan’s subsequent menacing gaze now affixed on
Souko Yeru, the latter seeing the end of his life flash before him, his jaw
dropped, his hair and bones went stiff involuntarily, and he tumbled off his
seat onto the ground. An insidious sliver of a
smile briefly grazed Duan’s features and he gave a dry, mirthless laugh. Then, in just a few steps he exited the room,
scattering those in his path to either side.
This had caused another sort of debacle, as jugs, chairs and even tables
were overturned by those attempting to clear the way by throwing themselves
over furniture and others indiscriminately. Complaints from all
corners rose in Duan’s absence; “Hey, watch out!”, “Watch where you’re going!”,
“Get off my foot!”, “Look what you’ve done, clumsy fool!”, “You owe me a
drink!”, “You stained my robe!”, “Why did you push me?”, “It was an accident!” Yet others protested; “I didn’t mean to push
you.”, “Sure you didn’t!”, “I’m not paying for that!”, “Where is that blasted
waiter?”, “Where did our jug go, it was still full?” In this mayhem and hubbub all but a few had
overlooked Brandt, still seated in the corner and blending into the shadows. He was debating for a
moment just what to say to Duan once he’d caught up with him. When he rose, it was enough to, once more,
cast the room into silence. All froze
where they stood, but the path was instantly made clear for him, again with
much scurrying and trampling over others, as they got out of his way to the
door. After the storm gradually
abated, and the sounds once more returned to normal in the dining hall, the
intrepid innkeeper emerged from hiding and once more began directing his
underlings to set the place in order. Souko Yeru, finding new courage in the pair’s
absence, pursed his lips, angrily stamped his feet, and, cursing, made the
attempt to go after them. Hastily many
rushed to block his way. “Have you lost your
mind? Already you’ve had one brush with
death. Are you so sick of living that
you would tempt fate twice?” But Souko Yeru was too
complacent to see anything wrong with his earlier diatribe. “He had no right to threaten me!” he shouted
indignantly. “But you did provoke
them.” Another disagreed and more of them nodded their heads and sounded their
agreement in unison. “Did you see how
formidable they were… the likes of which not seen in these parts? You were
lucky, we were all lucky, they forwent any engagement; and particularly, did
not strike you down.” another commented. At this point Souko Yeru
lashed out at him and others furiously, cursing them all in most vile language.
“I’m not afraid of the likes of them!” He, having expanded his energies,
eventually huffed. “All of you are just a bunch of yellow-bellied dandies, and
you call yourselves law enforcement officers…Bahh! Why, you should all be
sacked! A good reprimand is what you all will be receiving, if I had my way,
instead of payroll. You should be
ashamed of yourselves. Are you men or
mice?” “Sure,” one stout official
that held higher rank than Souko, wrinkled his nose and snorted, “Is that why you so
bravely fell off your seat?” “Perhaps
the chair’s leg gave way.” A roar of laughter
resounded through the room and set Souko Yeru’s blood to boiling. “You ungrateful wretches!”
Shaking a finger at those beneficiaries of his bribes, he bellowed. His voice was getting hoarser, and he
absentmindedly rubbed his throat. “And after all those times
I’ve treated you to drinks!” He turned
his face to still others.
The innkeeper and his
hefty helpers at this point rushed out to bring things under control and to
placate Souko Yeru. “Now, now, calm yourself,
sir, before you make yourself ill. They spoke as they did because they care
about you. We are all friends here, and
friends should not quarrel. Now, have a
drink on me and patch things up. Waiter,
bring a jug here! It’s on the
house. Now, drink up, gentlemen.” Outside, meanwhile, Brandt had caught up to Duan. “Why did you stop me?’
angrily Duan bellowed at him. “Why do
you care if that miserable wretch or his accomplices lived or died?” “Brother, forgive me, but
you can’t go on leaving corpses behind you just because someone offends your
sensibilities. Those wretches were all beside themselves with drink, this being
the end to the celebratory week. And on top of that, it would not have been a
fair contest now, would it? Why it would be like slaughtering sheep, what
thrill is in that?” “No thrill; but less annoyance and little more peace in the region!” Duan scoffed. “Do you expect sense from these people,
especially at this far outpost?” Brandt added, encouraged by Duan’s
uncharacteristic, soft banter. “Brother, last time you killed a man because he
dared to put his hand on your shoulder; another one before that because he
accidentally bumped into you; and another because he refused to give way. And that’s not counting the number of
one-armed corpses you’ve piled up behind us.
Now I’ve no love for any of these wretches, but I’m getting worried at
the number of corpses we are leaving in our trail. The local officials are no problem, but
suppose this was brought to the attention of the ministry, how could we then
account for these acts and escape punishment?” “As I said earlier, if you don’t like it and are afraid, you are free to leave. How dare you assume such airs and presume to teach me sense? Who endowed you with such courage?” Duan delivered these words
with such an icy finality that Brandt left pursuit of the matter to some future
date and hung his head low in silence as he followed Duan to the gambling hall. ~ (END OF SECTION 6) |
