11- LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - EVIL PERSONIFIED - SECTION 6

Subsequently, long after his firstborn's ignominious death, Zakhertan had thoroughly investigated all happenstances from varied perspectives and scrutinized even the remotest incidents (episodes) that could have given rise to his son’s shocking defiance; meanwhile, seeking any explanation to forgive his son and to absolve himself from least blame. He had even considered the possibility that his beloved son had gone temporarily insane, had suffered a medical mental affliction (episode) or injury that had resulted in his irrational, deplorable behavior.

Nevertheless, Qijerrik consequent unfilial breach could not be minimized (disputed) or denied; after considering this at present once more, Zakhertan shook his head and again hardened his heart. Qijerrik when captured and brought in chains before him (Zakhertan) to account for his crimes, though altered in personality, had been perfectly resolute and of sound mind. Zakhertan recalled with perfect clarity each nuance and subtlety of affectation, moreover, every brazen discord (articulated dissent) of that day when Qijerrik stood adamantly defiant despite his obvious grave injuries.

01- -QIJERRIK YOZDEK IN CHAINS

 Zakhertan gritted his teeth while the muscles on his face went taut (rigid, tense, tightened), just as it had done then, his heart in the throes of extreme emotional turmoil- observing (witnessing) his son’s  stoic bravely, hearing his son’s defiant responses to his culpable (accusatory), damning analyses and sadistic demands, never giving an inch, shackled and seriously wounded as he were beneath his armour (breastplate, chainmail), result of his prior gallant skirmish with the elite force!

Incredibly, even after all this time, despite all that had passed (transpired), Zakhertan still held deep affection for his firstborn son and he still yearned deep within the crevices of his soul, to have Qijerrik standing by him, as he had once done. Zakhertan had given him the single, unheard of until then, chance to repent, to explain his actions and to beg absolution from him (his Sovereign father). Though, Zakhertan had known all too well, that the offer of leniency was wasted on the son after his own heart. Predictably, Qijerrik had remained unrelenting and defiant until the bitter- end.

"I gladly welcome death (be freed by death) and decent into the debts of Hell than intake another breath and persist (live) under the noxious grid (net) of your tyrannical rule!"

 Those caustic words, then to present, were forever etched in (scarred, burned in) Zakhertan Yozdek’s heart and still pained him. At the time seeing red (enraged), Zakhertan’s fury had just exploded.

"Your death shall not come that easy."  In a blinding rage (not seeing his son), he had descended upon the insolent, shackled prisoner and, drawing his sword severed, in lightning strike, Qijerrik’s right arm above the elbow; but with incredible self-control he had stayed his blade, desisting the urge of cutting Qijerrik’s throat and in a sweeping motion amputating both of his (son’s) legs above the knee.  

02-ZAKHERTAN YOZDEDK  (68)

Qijerrik for a moment or two had fought hard to remain conscious as the stump of his severed arm, the severed artery, sprayed blood all over Zakhertan’s chest and on the guards who flanked him. Nevertheless, fuelled by indignation, for he possessed the same fiery temperament as Zakhertan, Qijerrik’s voice thence, thundered with his wrathful curses directed at his father, till his strength gradually but assuredly waned.

Zakhertan, his fury only satiated by the spilling of blood, consequently, in lightening speed sheathing his sword and then simultaneously withdrawing his dagger from his inner garment, grabbed the tongue of his son and cut out the offensive organ at the root.

His son, by this act, would be silenced forever, so he had thought. But those eyes, those hateful, burrowing eyes spoke louder than any battle cry. The look had extricated (wrenched) Zakhertan’s soul out from his body, then inexplicably plunged (plummeted, drawn) into the debts of those blazing blue eyes of Qijerrik’s; Zakhertan thus helplessly mesmerized, held captive (caged) by the force of it, had endured Qijerrik’s heaped on silent recriminations-making Zakhertan feel like an abhorred monster and worse, making him suffer (experience) the effects of his actions had had on others.

Zakhertan could have well tolerated (stomached, endured) all blame and that penetrating glare of loathing; but then his son’s eyes had unexpectedly softened and had insufferably next, got suffused with a deep, profound pity for Zakhertan, before Qijerrik succumbed to loss of blood and his eyelids dropped! That did it!

At that moment, unbridled fury had again exploded in Zakhertan for, “how dare his son, so abjectly pity him?”  Anew his heart turned to stone; Zakhertan had barked his orders to the guards to get the traitor Qijerrik out of his sight at once. His death, however, would not be so swift.

03- INFURIATED ZAKHERTAN YOZDEDK  (16) JP

The guards understanding Zakhertan’s unspoken command, had hauled Prince Qijerrik to the darkest of dungeons, had his wounds cauterized, and then had the prince chained to the far wall. Once a day Qijerrik was force-fed to keep him alive, for Zakhertan still demanded repentance from his son and if necessary, it would be extracted by torture. Subsequent days, the rebellious forces bereft of his leadership, had been one by one, swiftly, and methodically rooted out and vanquished; and in less than two months every whimper of rebellion had been crushed.  

Every generation of Scholars’ families down to the extended members, servants, associates as well as, all other suspected sympathizers were one and all, rounded up and publicly executed throughout the Kingdom. Many villages and rural towns which had lent support to the Scholar rebels had been raised, incinerated and every life within them snuffed out of existence. Their severed, blood-soaked heads were hoisted on pikes over city gates or in village squares where the eyes were picked clean by crows and the empty sockets formed nests for maggots. Left there indefinitely to rot and stink, they served as a grim reminder, a deterrent, and a warning to all dissidents.  

Each day for well over a month, Prince Qijerrik chained and immobile, had spent long, agonizing hours, being kept appraised of the most recent atrocious and ghastly reprisals exacted (meted out) on his once compatriots.  

 Zakhertan had hoped that the self-recrimination alone, at all the suffering Prince had caused, would force Qijerrik to see the error of his ways and beg, by whatever means he could, Zakhertan's forgiveness. Only then swift death would be bestowed on the prince, along with the granting of full funerary rights. The alternative, Zakhertan let Qijerrik know, was to be kept in the dungeon indefinitely, to undergo sporadic tortures then be left to rot until his corpse would be tossed into the moat below like that of a common criminal. Qijerrik, defiant to the end, had, however still found a way to cheat Zakhertan of the pleasure of his demise (death). At the beginning of the second month of his incarceration, after eating normally for two days to build his strength and lull the guard's suspicions, he had taken advantage of the brief period when the shift changed and, gathering all his bodily strength, had swung his skull backwards with all his force against the wall he was shackled to.  Prince Qijerrik had always been a stalwart (strapping) young man and even in this weakened state, it had taken only one attempt to shatter his skull and therefore end his existence.

Both shifts of guards, finding out what had happened and fearing Zakhertan’s wrath, fell upon their swords and immediately ended their life. The news of his son's suicide had at first infuriated Zakhertan Yozdek, but the more he thought about it, the more he admired his son's resolve and courage despite himself. Though misguided, his son’s stubborn defiance right up to the end had earned Qijerrik, Zakhertan’s lasting esteem and deep eternal love, for being such a true warrior. Breaking his own rule of law, Zakhertan had taken Qijerrik’s remains and had them buried beside those of his mother Lady Elin, in the Royal Tombs; however, the corpse of Prince Qijerrik still received no funerary rites.

04-ZAKHERTAN YOZDEK 78

Zakhertan’s heart from then on had grown even colder still, for he had after all, lost the only person who had mattered to him in life. He had since then been, figuratively speaking, dead to the world. He had allowed himself no attachments and had taken solace only in wars, with murder and mayhem (pandemonium, havoc) being his constant companions; however, none of that had satiated his voracious, predatory soul’s gripe (or lament). His heart, already turned to chunk of ice and caged in an iron chest, had only last year, though hesitantly, had begun to thaw. Zakhertan’s thoughts at present reluctantly turned to Crown Prince Herleif, he speculated whether he had unfairly shunned his second son, born three years after Qijerrik to the same mother Lady Elin.

The two Princes could not have been more different. Prince Herleif was so vastly inferior to the firstborn, that it was hard for Zakhertan to believe Qijerrik shared the (same chromosome, gene pool,) same gene (genetic factor, DNA, RNA) with such a sorry specimen. Lately however, Zakhertan’s feelings about Herleif had been mixed and his heart at times had been tinged with small measure of guilt, for he knew deep down in the crux of his conscience being that he was partly to be blamed for those ill-gotten results. Hadn't he after all desired this outcome in Herleif, this weakling, the bane of his life, and took corresponding (apt) measures all along to perpetuate it? Yes, over the years he had followed his son's failings and his sorry progress, assured that no danger would arise from him but, unlike Yoshikan Sousing Nokuzuk Binchan of Korion, Herleif had not faked his incompetence.

05- YOSHIKAN SOUSING NOKUZUK BINCHAN   (44)JP

Zakhertan thence (from that time on) having changed his mind had subjected his second son to rigorous (arduous) training; try as he might however, after numerous failings and some physical injuries, Prince Herleif had proven absolutely that he had no knack for civil or military calling. He was a dismal failure and a bitter disappointment for one such as Zakhertan Yozdek. Unlike his late elder brother Qijerrik, Prince Herleif was not agile enough, lacked zeal, lacked compassion and benevolence, lacked stamina, courage, wisdom, and skill. Even the most stringent, rigorous training that would have otherwise transformed an ordinary being into a semi-competent commander or an acceptable soldier (warrior), missed its mark in Herleif; he was, at best, a mediocre fighter, and a dismally incompetent supervisor. Nor was this his only failing, prince Herleif was miserly and lacked imagination and foresight; he had failed to apply his extensive schooling in strategy into practice and so was also a failure as a tactical commander in the field. Sovereign Zakhertan had learned this lesson at cost of thousands of good fighting men and a near loss of a province; fortunately, the timely intervention from Prince Herleif’s replacement, a much abler Commander Zifel, had rectified the situation and secured the province. Zakhertan had never been able to forgive his second son Herleif for this terrible blunder and disgrace. Even after his banishment to a remotest province as Governor, much more suffering had been readied for him. In fact, it was only due to the sudden demise of Zakhertan’s third son, Prince Kendar that Herleif's life had been spared at all.  

Sovereign Zakhertan Yozdek robbed of any other adolescent male heirs, had reluctantly recalled (summoned) Prince Herleif back to the Capital Channing. This was of course a temporary measure, as Zakhertan had estimated that now Crown Prince Herleif might last just long enough till a pegged, more capable offspring was born to him (Zakhertan). For some time unfortunately, fate had denied Zakhertan this fundamental right; after the accidental death of Prince Turin Yozdek at the age of three (born to Lady Idona Yozdek), then the sudden demises at infancy of both the Prince Chucek (born to Lady Shayen Yozdek) and Prince Kureing (born to Lady Yinnis), Zakhertan had furtively next hung all his hopes on Prince Magnian, who’d fortunately had survived and was presently, five years old. Zakhertan fists had momentarily clenched then let go, as he had thought how opportunely, fate had given him one more chance to redeem his mistakes. This time he would take care not to repeat Qijerrik’s morose ending, Zakhertan inwardly vowed. He would, furthermore, ascertain that no undue or adverse influences be thrust upon Magnian in an unguarded moment and that, his training and education be far stricter and all encompassing. Though Prince Magnian was just five years old, he had been already showing signs of a great promise, much like Qijerrik.

06- ZAKHERTAN YOZDEDK  (91) AND LADY SEJON

Lady Sejon, as the mother of Prince Magnian, at present enjoyed Zakhertan’s special favors; she was after all, voluptuous, well endowed, beautiful young girl of twenty-two years of age, with honey-colored eyes and long, wavy, raven black hair. Besides being astute and quite ambitious, she was also the beloved niece of Prime Minister Lamont Gudaren; Zakhertan would therefore, tolerate her just a little while longer, while same time, keep an eye to make sure of curbing her influence. And then, Zakhertan grinned venomously, knowing the fate, regardless of circumstance, that awaited his lovely consort.

Zakhertan’s deliberations were interrupted just then by a cheerful chorus of chirps from the shallow pool in the garden outside his window. He absently watched, as the pair of songbirds drank, dipped their bodies into the water and then, flapped their wings to shake off the excess moisture. Zakhertan elucidated (interpreted) their ablutions (ritual cleansing) as a utilitarian exercise, much like the troops bathing after a long march (and before a victorious battle); turning, he glimpsed at the guard waiting woodenly all this time for his command.

"Very well, have him come in."   

The guard responded sharply and within seconds the expendable Crown Prince Herleif was ushered into the room.

 

                                                                                            ~

 

(END OF SECTION 6)

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - ON THE WAY TO THE CAPITAL - SECTION 17

The ensuing days and nights the relentless journey passed in much the same way: during daylight hours riding as hard as the mare's endurance would allow it and, stopping briefly at nightfall, in some secluded safe spot (away from the main highway), to allow the animal to recoup part of her spent strength.

Eventually on the fifth day, the road ahead merged with the new major trading route that accordingly (according to general hearsay), would be winding its way alongside the river leading to, at some point, to the bustling trading post.

01- NEVETSECNUAC

When at dusk, Nevetsecnuac’s sharp eyes spotted the beginnings of habitation in yonder (in the far distance); he halted the mare’s gallop and paused briefly to ponder whether it was time for him now to revert to his scholarly disguise.

 Concluding in the end that assuming Fradel Rurik Korvald's identity was more appropriate, despite the traps that may lie- in- wait on the road ahead, Nevetsecnuac steered the horse away from the road and, in a perfectly (hidden) secluded spot, clad himself once more in the poet's finery.

Just as he was about to discard the (bundled up) hunting clothes into a deep crevice, his eyes suddenly caught the jutting head of the miniature key, previously given to him in the pit by the tortured skeleton.

Pulling it out, he examined the item more intently (carefully) in daylight, before returning it to his inner pocket and resuming his journey.

Along the way Nevetsecnuac cogitated (deliberated) on how the metal of the miniature key had been sturdy and, strangely, shared certain similar properties, same texture, sheen, and resiliency, with the sword Zonar, at the start of their combat, had given him (furnished him with) for his use. 

Nevetsecnuac further mulled over (nominated) on, those precious small jewels all inset (inlaid) into the stem and around three cursive pictographs, a rare feat, so ingeniously crafted (worked) into the metal. 

His focus suddenly straying (drifting), “Zonar?" he abruptly queried.

"Your presence has been sorely missed.  When and where, I wonder, will our next destined encounter be?"  His lone cry, left unchallenged, resounded in the thin air, losing itself in the whisper of the wind rippling through the hills.

“Indeed, in a strange way he’d missed his most formidable adversary.”

Nevetsecnuac’s thoughts veered, this time, to his recent hallucination and he questioned yet again whether it was a premonition of the future after all.

 “Would the invincible warrior Zonar, really bring about my premature doom?” 

An inexplicable shudder passed through Nevetsecnuac just then, as the cryptic, cold hand of Death tapped his shoulder.  Despite it all, however, he still felt an absence of malice or disdain towards Zonar.

 “Perhaps that is where my own weakness lies?”

When rider and mount halted for a brief respite, Nevetsecnuac’s attention reverting on the miniature key, he pulled it out and studied those three cursive pictographs that had been worked into the metal.

They were unlike any he had seen or studied.

Unable to decipher their meaning, he decided to postpone solving it till later and quickly secured the key back this time, in his luggage.  He then in one fluid motion mounted the horse and in keeping with the pretense of Fradel Rurik Korvald, picked up the reins in the fastidious manner of a casual rider rather than his usual, expert grip.

Carrying the ornate crop that fashionable scholars used, he quickly spurred the horse back onto the road.  This time, however, he kept the horse's speed more moderate and, in keeping with the disguise, he allowed his rudiment traits (mannerisms, characteristics) merge in conformity with Fradel Rurik Korval’s.

Be that as it may, a sudden query (inquiry) prayed on Nevetsecnuac mind, a deep concern on how his sworn brother was faring in his own journey towards the mountain home where Lord Asger Thuxur Marrog Zhon and Teuquob awaited.

Nevetsecnuac understood that once Fradel had appraised them of the current political situation, so vastly different from the fictitious one by Heng Erling, and consequently, the amended goal; they would be despondent, comprehending (grasping) that he (Nevetsecnuac) would, forever be lost to them.

 Unbidden, Nevetsecnuac shed a silent tear, his soul now torn at their imagined, inevitable, inconsolable grief.  A Gut-wrenching sadness gripped his heart further, knowing he would miss out on seeing (his identical twins,) his son Alric Svein (boy) and daughter Lueling (girl), grow up.

                                                                                       ~                                                                                     

The journey thus far had been long and arduous, yet these rigors paled in comparison to the impending difficulties that lay ahead.  The Capital Province Holger, with all its rigid rules, regulations and stirring of the political soup made Nevetsecnuac a bit uneasy at first, but as he had been preparing for this eventuality all his life, he remained fully confident in meeting these challenges.  And for now, passing as the esteemed scholar Fradel Rurik Korvald presented the least problem of all.

Suddenly, Nevetsecnuac was rudely awakened from his hopeful reverie by the vociferous sounds of gambling, vigorous gaiety and strident music emanating from a string of inns lining the road up ahead.  The savory smells of every imaginable kind of dish assailed his nostrils, and he became aware for the first time that day of his empty stomach.  Reflecting, he realized that he had neglected to eat since the day before yesterday.

Dusk was falling once more, and he finally succumbed to the strong yearning within him for a warm bath and a cooked meal.

Halting the mare in front of the sixth inn by the side of the road, the most modest and respectable looking one of the lots, Nevetsecnuac dismounted and handed the horse's reins to the eager young stable hand.  Another page boy ran up as he dismounted and scooped up the baggage Nevetsecnuac had already tossed down.  Pausing for a moment Nevetsecnuac watched the stable boy gently handling the horse and leading the mare to the stables out back, then quickly mounted the marble steps (stairs) that led up to the posh (well-constructed) ebony door of the Inn, with the page burdened with the luggage following (trailing) close behind.

Nevetsecnuac was politely greeted by a dignified, rather young-looking, tall, lean, stern-faced proprietor seated at the makeshift desk. The original desk, Nevetsecnuac was to learn later on, had been badly damaged the previous night, casualty of an unprecedented brawl (fight, scuffle) between the two members of a rival faction, and was taken away for prompt repairs.  

02-  PROPRIETOR KJELD ROSKO

The proprietor had keen (intense), intelligent eyes, which its scrutiny penetrated deep within one’s soul. Rising to his feet at once, he’d approached the scholar, and with a slight bow of the head had introducing himself as Kjeld Rosko, the humble proprietor of that establishment, then courteously ushered the obviously distinguished scholar (Nevetsecnuac), to a comfortable seat by the makeshift registry desk.

Nevetsecnuac was first offered a complimentary cup of fragrant tea and asked if he would like some delectable tartlet to go with it.  Before Nevetsecnuac had a chance to reply, however, a shapely maid had brought in a tray bearing the steaming pot (of more tea) and some colorful, fluffy pastries. As Nevetsecnuac politely nodded and reached for the offered cup, the proprietor Kjeld Rosko, assuming his businesslike persona, steered around the table/desk and, fetching the elaborately bound registry book from the drawer, he opened it to a specific page.  After picking up the writing brush from its stand and loading it with ink, his eyes lightly trailed down the list of names on the parchment page to the last entry.

Smiling, Kjeld Rosko (the innkeeper) then looked up to pleasantly inquire after his honorable guest's name, his intended length of stay and his immediate and long-term requirements.

"Tonng Yennik." Nevetsecnuac, wishing to escape the scrutiny and unwarranted attention that the name of Fradel Rurik Korvald would attract, without the least change in his serene, but firm countenance, responded.  As Nevetsecnuac was dictating his other requirements his eye, covertly turned towards the crowded dining hall, where he caught sight of a singular stranger, armed with a finely made broadsword under his tailored garments, taking his evening meal in the company of two stout guards.

The stranger, though seated in a far corner, cut such an imposing figure that everyone in the hall was obviously ill at ease with his presence there.  A slight look of displeasure, after sampling (nibbling) one of the morsels, immediately unleashed, a fit of rage and hurling abuses from the guard on the left, directed at the manager who, in turn, red-faced, berated the hapless waiter who appeared to be laboring for breath from fright, but before he could pass out cold, he’d been perfunctorily dismissed.  On a signal from the manager, the more efficient, seasoned staff burst into the scene to fawn (toady, grovel) and to serve on the demanding two.

Kjeld Rosko momentarily distracted by this, his face twitched failing to hide his irritation and suppressed hostility, but only for a spell; the expression in his blue eyes now unreadable, he sported (wore) for a time a wry (sardonic) grin, as he followed the ongoing  frenzied activity to appease the occupants of that table in the dining hall.  Subsequently, turning away, he barked at the page (more like a snap command) to take the guest’s luggage on up to the available room at once then, hastened to complete his business with scholar Tonng Yennic.

03- KJELD ROSKO

In the midst of all that mayhem, the stranger’s eyes had briefly, with a cold, callous air swept the room, totally disregarding the ruckus (commotion) the guard on his left hand instigated (set off); then, purposefully averting Nevetsecnuac’s gaze, he indifferently resumed his stern conversation with the bearded one on his right.

 “Who are you that you should warrant such fear?”  Nevetsecnuac mused, as he stole an impassive glance at the stranger. 

The moment Nevetsecnuac was anew engaged by the proprietor Kjeld Rosko, however, the stranger reverted his cold, piercing eyes with a calculating gleam back on Nevetsecnuac to study him more intently.  His obvious subordinate, the keen bearded companion, becoming aware of this, abruptly fell silent and turned slightly in the same direction to see Nevetsecnuac then, reverted (turned) his questioning gaze back on the latter.

Nevetsecnuac, from the corner of his eye, astutely observed how the bearded one receiving some silent instructions inclined his head towards the lobby and nodded to some unseen person.

“Now the trap will be set.”  Nevetsecnuac tad (smidgen), amused, nonchalant, at his leisure rose and followed the innkeeper and his assistant Rodny (who’s rigid demeanor was more akin to a bodyguard) up the stairs.

The subtle exchange, Kjeld Rosko catching the stranger's eye in passing and, giving the other a terse, obsequious nod, was of course shrewdly noted by Nevetsecnuac. Stifling a chortle, midway up the stairs he (Nevetsecnuac) turned and halted, boldly looking back at the stranger, giving him a complete once over.

“Who are you, really,” Nevetsecnuac intrepidly mused.

And when Nevetsecnuac’s eye caught the dour glower (stern scowl) of the bearded guard, he simply grimaced wryly and, undaunted, turned to continue following Kjeld Rosko and his assistant Rodny, to the top of the stairs.

The proprietor Kjeld Rosko observing scholar’s audacious (risky) demeanor, his face for a spell had turned ashen, but of course, he had quickly masked his dread and, from then on with a glint of admiration in his pupils, he’d covertly scrutinized this unusual scholar, while he hastened his steps towards the assigned room. Finally, at the end of the long hall Nevetsecnuac was solicitously ushered into an airy, comfortable room.

“Lavish decorations,” Nevetsecnuac noted after a cursory glance, “far too lavish, in fact.”

 A frown appeared on his face, and he shook his head, "This will not do!"

"But sir, it’s the best room we have, the most luxurious one at this Inn." Suppressing his fury, Kjeld Rosko reticently (reservedly, warily) protested.  Clearly, he had not anticipated the objection.  His assistant standing rigidly on the side, looking aghast and tongue-tied, wrung his hands as he nervously searched his brain for more persuasive words, to assist his boss in this.

Nevetsecnuac disdainfully walked past both, to stand before a magnificent tapestry hanging over the far wall.  His stern eyes surveyed the fine stitching until they pointedly rested on a miniature hole concealed by the design, and he grimaced coldly.

On the other side the spy blanched and instinctively recoiled with a jerk, fearing he had been found out.  Then, acknowledging that that was impossible, he pressed a single eye back to the portal only to meet Nevetsecnuac's cold stare once more.  Excitement and fear coursed through his veins as he shuddered anew, filled with apprehension.

04- SPY (FRASTOS) - JP 11

Nevetsecnuac, however, smiled sourly and half turned to address the inwardly seething Kjeld Rosko.

"Are you daft or hard of hearing; I said, this room is unsatisfactory. “He said crossly (irately) then softening his tone, explained. “For one thing, it’s too drafty," he shot a glance back at the tapestry, "for another, I prefer the western exposure.  Perhaps I've neglected to inform you of these particular requirements."

"Please, reexamine facts sir and reconsider," Kjeld Rosko clenched his right fist, hidden behind his back, as his assistant, now tongue-tied, clamoring for an apt excuse.  "If I may be candid with you, the rooms facing west are all occupied.  Besides that, they are all second rate and decidedly draftier."  Kjeld said in a placating tone, though he held his hard gaze on the arrogant scholar, "Won't you reassess?  I'll do everything in my power to make your stay here most pleasant and comfortable.  This is truly our finest room, as befits one of your ‘stature, sir.  I assure you that, even if another room becomes available, it will fall considerably short of the luxury you see here."

"Look here," Nevetsecnuac cut him short with a curt gesture of his hand, "if you don't have the means to accommodate me as I wish, then I strongly suggest that you stop wasting my time.  Have my horse brought round at once!"  Feigning anger, he made to leave, pushing past Kjeld Rosko.

"What's all the commotion about?"  The bearded guard from the dining hall suddenly appeared in the hall.

"Sir, this is a private matter.  Your rude intrusion is not appreciated."  Nevetsecnuac glared at the guard provocatively.

“What business is this of yours?  Get lost!” his stern look plainly said.

Obviously unused to this kind of treatment, the guard looked sharply at Nevetsecnuac, his hand gliding over to rest threateningly at the hilt of his sheathed sword, and his polite smile instantly turned into an icy scowl of hatred.

 Any other would have been wasted for a mere cross look, let alone such a rebuke!

“Have you not the slightest idea whom you are addressing?” his eyes narrowed, as he glared venomously (furiously), the threat implicit in his silence.

“So,” Nevetsecnuac mused, “you've had orders not to molest (assault, abuse, mistreat) me; interesting!”

 In keeping with a scholar's arrogance, Nevetsecnuac was about to haughtily rebuff the restrained bully further, when Kjeld Rosko, with unusual agility, rushed past Tonng Yennik (Nevetsecnuac).

Eyes hard with steel determination, the resilient (tough and flexible) proprietor, nevertheless, bowed low to the guard.

"I apologize profusely, sir, for your trouble.  I apologize to you both."  Kjeld Rosko turned and bowed low also, to Tonng Yennik.  Despite his outward show of submission, he quaked in rage, inwardly. Nevetsecnuac was secretly impressed with Kjeld Rosko’s admirable stoical (tolerant, forbearing) nature.

"It’s just a slight misunderstanding, that's all."  Shifting his sham (pretend), nervous gaze back and forth between the guard and Tonng Yennik, he dabbed at the supposed perspiration on his mustache, with his handkerchief.  "The gentleman wishes to have another room.  I was just about to accommodate his wishes."

“It sounds like you're asking his permission, innkeeper!” Nevetsecnuac questioningly looked at Kjeld Rosko.

The guard's face, meanwhile, had crinkled in momentary disgust as, clenching his fist, he let the built-up anger drain slowly from him.  After a scornful laugh he averted Tonng Yennik's eyes and gave the briefest of nods.

 "I apologize for the intrusion."  Without another word, he briskly turned and left.

Kjeld Rosko was relieved that the volatile situation had been averted; after a furtive glance at the retreating guard, he politely turned to address the scholar: "Please, for the time being, make yourself comfortable here; I'll go and make all the specific arrangements at once." Attaining a nod of concurrence from Tonng Yennik, he exhaled deeply, bowed low once more, then hastily withdrew.

“What dramatics!” Nevetsecnuac shook his head after the proprietor.

 “It had not been his intention to be so hard on Kjeld Rosko.  He was only testing the waters to see how far they would go to keep him here.  But why have they made no contact yet?  What were they waiting for?”  Nevetsecnuac had already formed his own opinion on the singular stranger's role in all this or, at least, who it was that had ordered his accommodation here.  Nevetsecnuac had set the wheel in motion, forced their hands but, until the inevitable meeting which, he was certain, would transpire later that night, there was little left now for him to do.  With a shrug of his shoulders, he strolled to the far end of the room and stood in front of the window, thoughtfully staring out at the view.  The miniature gardens, with their man-made mountains and creeks, the snaking pathways bordered by elaborate lattices seemed to be pure ostentation. 

05-SCHOLAR TONNG YENNICK (NEVETSECNUAC)JPG

The shallowness of it all rather disgusted him.  “Only those who only experienced nature at second hand could find the tiny landscape appealing,” he concluded.  He disdainfully pursed his lips then turned away from the window, his mind returning to the stranger and his guards.

“I foiled their immediate plans and forced them into an alternate course.  Next, I'll appear agreeable, but not too much so.  Why should I make things too easy for them?”  His eyes once more surveyed the room.

“I wonder where the trap door is.”  Deducing (figuring out) the most likely spot, he walked over and tapped lightly, so as not to alert any guard concealed within.  Satisfied with the result, he turned back and sat down by the fireplace.

Short time later Kjeld returned somewhat panting (winded, breathless) and with flushed (red) face, for he had to oversee a lot of details and alter or shift the carefully devised plans and traps that had been in place for nearly a month.  After apologizing profusely to Tonng Yennik for the inconvenience and the slight delay he declared, with a certain satisfaction, that the room fitting his precise specifications had now been made ready for his perusal. Kjeld Rosko then, graciously inclined his head and invited Tonng Yennik to follow him.  As they were leaving, Kjeld turned and bayed at his underling Rodney, to; at once move the gentleman's baggage to the “Room Twelve”.

Down the hall, they came across a disgruntled merchant, hair disheveled and clothes akimbo, being hastily, unceremoniously deposited into a new room.  Too angry, or perhaps too frightened, to articulate his feelings, he glared furiously at Kjeld Rosko then stole a scornful glance at Tonng Yennik, before going in and pointedly slamming the door in their faces as they passed.

Feigning incomprehension, Nevetsecnuac raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper.  The apologetic Kjeld nervously rushed to give some lame excuse for the merchant's rude behavior, glancing fearfully at the cracked door to his left as he spoke.  Then, with polite rhetoric (pomposity), he motioned to the room on the right and, inclining his head slightly, ushered Tonng Yennik into the hastily prepared Room Twelve.

"Is this room more to your satisfaction, sir?  Does it meet with your approval?"  Kjeld’s deep etched lines on his face, tell-tale-signs of fret, creased further with impatience as he, waited for an answer.

"Hmm… It will do." Nevetsecnuac responded, after a brief perusal.  Walking over to the far corner, he sunk into a comfortable chair by the mantle.

 “Odd,” Nevetsecnuac noted the recently disturbed dust floating in the air; “this room had not been used for some time.  It obviously wasn't my needs that dislodged that merchant.”

Highly pleased and, showing no inclination to leave Kjeld, meanwhile, had walked up to the tray bearing a teapot and cups and, turning, graciously offered his guest a seething cup of fragrant tea. Receiving a negative response, he next, on the pretext of showing the amenities of the room and how it accorded with his guest's instructions, prodded Tonng Yennik discreetly, so he thought, for more information, his background, destination, and the nature of his business in the Capital.

With a seemingly agreeable disposition, Nevetsecnuac provided him with only the minimum of harmless information, just enough to satisfy Kjeld's curiosity.  Then, feigning distraction, inquired pointedly after the stranger with the broadsword whom he had seen earlier in the dining hall.

06- FAMOUS BATHOUSE  (3)JPG

The shock, which Kjeld Rosko so miserably failed to mask and, his subsequent, evasive answers, piqued Nevetsecnuac’s curiosity.  Nevertheless, for the time being, he decided to simply let it pass.

To Kjeld’s relief just then, an underling after knocking poked his head in and hastily offered his apologies for the intrusion; he next, happily announced that the provisions for the bath had been made ready in the bathing hall.

"A communal bath," Tonng Yennik, his face showing obvious signs of displeasure, derisively asked.

"Why, of course." Kjeld with a profligate grin, explained.  "And you’ll be attended by rare, exquisite beauties of either gender, depending on your preference of course. We have become quite famous for our bathing facilities here ever since we found the means to channel the nearby hot springs in an unlimited supply.  Sir, you are quite fortunate that you have come at this time before high Season.  Winter is our busiest time, and nearly all our rooms are reserved far in advance by gentry from near and far.  Oh, but I'm keeping you from your enjoyment of your bath."  Seizing this opportunity, Kjeld Rosko beat a hasty retreat.

“Yes, hasten forth and report your findings to that stranger.  I'm sure he will be impressed by the uselessness of your observations,” Nevetsecnuac thought as the Innkeeper departed.

“I’m in need of a bath, “Nevetsecnuac reflected, “but only that and nothing else.”

Before he left the room however, Nevetsecnuac took the precautionary measure of concealing his identity papers in a supposed, secure place.  Locking the door after him, he swiftly traversed the long hallway and descended the stairs, following the painted images of a man in a tub down to the bathing chamber.

 

                                                                                            ~

 

(END OF SECTION 17)

THE STATE OF THINGS - SECTION- 15

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - THE STATE OF THINGS - SECTION 15

 Though Fradel was an experienced rider (equestrian), he had never before been forced to undergo such trying circumstances.  The dizzying speed with which Fiery Comet had galloped (ridden) and the many twists and turns (in topography) he had negotiated had totally spent Fradel's energies and befuddled his sense of direction.  As the stallion flew over and around the many hurdles in its path, Fradel had gripped the reins tightly, clinging to the horse in mortal fear as he used all his innate skill just to remain in the saddle.

 When, finally, Fiery Comet reined in, it took some time for Fradel to catch his breath, calm his heart and steady his nerves before he could dismount.

With the solid earth beneath his (unsteady) feet once more, Fradel looked over Fiery Comet with perturbation, feeling some misgivings despite himself.  The steed, meanwhile, was impatiently neighing and stomping his forefoot on the ground beside the very rock.

“What is it boy?” But then Fradel suddenly realized that Nevetsecnuac's sword was buried at that very spot, just few feet under the rock.

"I suppose I really should be grateful to you for saving my life?"  Fradel dusted off his clothes.  "And I realize now that it would have been too dangerous for me to return home directly at this time." he acquiesced quietly.

 After a few moments deliberation he nodded his head, recalling to mind Nevetsecnuac's parting injunction regarding this horse, “When in doubt, you may rely on his instincts. He will deliver you form all danger.”

Going over, he managed, with great effort, to roll the rock aside then, resting on his knees, dug out the sword with his bare hands.  The sword was still encased in the layers of silk brocade he had given Nevetsecnuac.  Dusting the dirt off, he removed these layers and unsheathed the sword.  Holding it high, he carefully examined this awe-inspiring weapon for any damage.  There was not even a minute notch.  Not even the slightest scratch was visible on the scintillating surface of the cold blue blade.

Truly an amazing blade, one of a kind; it must be true of what they say, that it is cast from a meteorite.  As he shifted his arm’s position, admiring the sword's brilliance, the sword's blade caught the setting sun's rays and radiated ominous torrents of sanguine red light.  That same instant, an icy breeze arose from nowhere, sweeping the area clean and forcing Fradel to shudder to the depths of his marrow.

Mesmerized by the metal's flickering light, he saw on its surface the manifestation of three levitating faces.  He sharpened his vision to recognize Nevetsecnuac's face, but could not place the other two, one old and one young and their identities baffled him.

 After a moment's reflection, however, he came to understand who the other two might be and a mournful, tragic smile played on his lips.  As his heart flooded with renewed longing and grief and his eyes brimmed with tears, he dropped to his knees and, in woeful supplication, implored Heaven's assistance in their righteous cause.

 Fiery Comet fell unusually quiet and at this moment in time, enveloped in stillness, Fradel saw unfolding in his mind's eye Nevetsecnuac's heroic countenance, larger than life, wielding this sword with consummate skill as he vanquished his enemies in a sea of blood.

 Then, from behind the prince, a monstrous crimson wave arched its back, leaping to devour him.  Reacting instantly, even though he could not swim, Fradel, with a palpitating heart, rushed forward with outstretched arms to embrace Nevetsecnuac, to shield him and deliver him from this terrible danger.  A quivering cry escaped him instead as his arms flailed in the empty air beside the rock.  Cupping his face in his hands, he gave way to a storm of tears.  His face contorted with pain and rivulets of sorrow cascaded down his burning cheeks.  Clutching at his heart, he wailed in mournful regret, "What am I doing here?  My place is with my brother.  I want to live and die by his side.  Oh, how could I have abandoned him so?”

"What do you want from me?"  The persistent nudges of Fiery Comet suddenly brought him back to his senses and the burst of anger subsided.

Presently, he hung his head low in resignation.  Yes, the beast is right.  There is no time for agonizing over my negligence.  No time for regret, or remorse, or grief. 

He knew then what he must do.  As a man of honor, his own salvation dwarfed in comparison to his obligation to deliver this sword to its rightful owner and the future heir (descendant, successor). Moreover, it was essential to the success of the task that he permitted himself no weakness.   Collecting himself, he scrambled back to his feet and carefully secured the sword across his back underneath his cape.

Though apprehensive at mounting such a spirited animal again, he nevertheless braced himself, boldly placed his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself back into the saddle.

No sooner than he'd gripped the reins, Fiery Comet shot forward like a missile just sprung from a catapult and Fradel's ordeal began anew.

Like his namesake, Fiery Comet's speed was such that Fradel felt as if he was riding a gale force wind.  The ground was a blur under the horse's hooves and the air moaned in Fradel's ears.  Flirtatious stars winked at him through floating clouds, as the trees, shrubs and grasses, casting their shadows by full moonlight, swayed in the breeze to bid them farewell.

Well into the night the lone rider sped, unfaltering, through the forests, hillsides, plains and valleys of the countryside.  Still, Fradel was not Nevetsecnuac Alric Therran Valamir.  Despite his determination and the care taken by his mount not to unseat his rider, the exertion still made Fradel's heartbeat with such wildness that he felt it would burst from his chest.

 His throat now parched, the hunger pains stabbing at his stomach merely compounded his misery. Had Fradel but known it then, this would be the norm from here on, that this was to be but the very start of the even more trying hardships that lay ahead- he might have had second thoughts and be fearful of the portended future.  As it were, from this day forth, he would never again be the one to bask in prior, carefree life of luxury (luxurious Lifestyle), one who’d devote many lonely hours to the adoration of beauty or contemplate on the philosophies of nature and of man.

 A true test to his innate (nature) characters however, he embraced wholeheartedly this new, arduous course (lifestyle), with courage and determination, wowing to do his utmost in furthering the righteous cause of Lord Asger Thuxur Marrog Zhon and his beloved sworn brother Prince Nevetsecnuac Alric Therran Valamir.

His will was one thing however, his physical strength and vigor (robustness) another. Despite his inner drive, his endurance taxed to the limit, he soon longed for rest.  Every fiber of his (being) body ached but his obstinate mount, as if to torment him, paid no heed to his commands and showed no sign of slowing down.

My stamina (physical strength and vigor) cannot keep up with this grueling ride, it is at ebb.  I fear it will fail me, then what?  Fradel dismally reflected. 

I should at least take measures to guard against falling. 

In desperation, he began winding the reins tightly about his wrists; securing himself somewhat he thought, in the saddle should he lose consciousness.  Before Fradel had secured the final loop, however, to his relief and elation, Fiery Comet began decreasing his speed until he came to a halt in a clearing at the edge of a forest. 

Acting on impulse, before this stubborn steed changed his mind, Fradel quickly loosened the straps and dismounted. He collapsed face down; spread-eagle on the ground in half conscious state.

When Fradel regained his senses the faint sound of a stream flowing nearby reached his ears.  So, I was not dreaming, he heaved a sigh.  Then he rubbed his throat, Oh, I'm so parched! 

Still teetering on the brink of collapsing once more, still saddle sore, he forced himself to his feet and, letting his ears and the horse, which had not left his side, to guide him, he groped his way in the darkness to the edge of the stream.  Once there he squatted, quaffing water from his cupped hands until his thirst was quenched.  Seeking further relief, he doused his face and neck with the cool, refreshing water.

Fiery Comet had moved downstream and was helping himself to drink when, feeling playful, he abruptly began to splash and spray flecks of water at the scholar.

Ignoring this dousing, Fradel rose, squeezed the excess water from his hair and, with a frown, headed straight for the nearest tree.  No sooner had he propped (leaned) his back against its trunk than his hunger disappeared, and he fell instantly into a deep slumber.

The stallion, disappointedly whinnying, trotted to Fradel's side where he began to quietly graze on the shorter blades near the tree, ignoring the lush, tall grass farther away in the meadow.

(END OF SECTION 15)