11- LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - EVIL PERSONIFIED - SECTION 5

 

Zakhertan, turning his attention back on the task at hand, glowered (looked daggers) at the fourth stack of documents on his desk needing his perusal, he impatiently tapped his fingers on the desk and hissed. “Always the same… “    

Reluctant to begin, Zakhertan with disdain briefly watched the dancing flames of the brazier as Neru typically feed them, before reflecting on Lenny Sukzor’s latest submitted report on the covert and highly illegal activities of Egil Viggoaries. The slight discrepancy between Lenny’s and the subsequent information tendered by Juyin, the lovely wife of Lenny Sukzor’s, on her husband's activities, caused Zakhertan to frown.

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The two statements varied slightly on one minute detail; an irregularity so feeble that another in his stead might have entirely missed it. Should he be concerned with such a trivial contradiction (incongruity)? Was it an oversight? No! He must not leave anything, no matter how slight, to chance.    

Zakhertan’s mouth formed into a snarl as he drew another blank parchment before him and issued a set of specific orders to have the matter more thoroughly investigated.  

 “I’ll wait and see where this leads to,” Zakhertan briefly pondered, after which he quickly sealed the envelope, containing specific order, with his Imperial seal. A single logo (motif) drawn on the envelope and explicit sequence of numbers registered underneath, indicated the precise department and agent that it was to be handed to; this too was summarily put aside along with the rest in that growing pile.

Then there is still that other matter, Zakhertan Yozdek irritatedly drummed his fingers on the desk. No! There was no need to review it again. Why was he even debating that issue still?  

Such ambivalence angered him; the one thing he had always taken pride in was his decisiveness and exceptionally retentive memory. One glance at anything, any detail however insignificant or minute, and it would be permanently embedded in his mind. Now tapping that innate advantage, Zakhertan recalled with perfect clarity a certain trivial observation hidden in the report the Royal Courier had submitted upon the completion of his mission. This obtuse remark did not tally with the recently, thoroughly compiled accounts by The Shadow Brigade men on the activities of the newcomer, Fradel Rurik Korvald.    

Ordinarily such a minuscule discrepancy would not have elicited any concern from Zakhertan.  Reflecting additionally on the independent reports of Zyerne Stewor and Tizan, who had also curiously enough, raised doubts about the Scholar and considering the recent happenings, Zakhertan decided to delve deeper into the otherwise innocuous matter concerning Fradel Rurik Korvald.

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He might well have inadvertently transported trouble right to the Capital. This farfetched notion now gripped his heart anew with a certain inexplicable foreboding, for far too many had already come-in-contact with the illustrious scholar. Zakhertan imagined the wide scope this investigation would entail, the deployment of manpower it would take to, either get at the simple truth or, expose all the subversives if his hunch proved correct. As it were, the scholars had again been gaining one third measure of their former prominence and along with it, their sphere of influence had expediently grown. In any event a quick confirmation of these nagging concerns was warranted; he must question the couriers Canbir Nonng and Cais Honger further, on the one minor irregularity in their report. Zakhertan had always insisted on complete and accurate assessments and, if this was the result of incompetence, sacrificing accuracy for expedience, then the couriers would have to answer for it with their lives. Quickly he dispatched another written order, this one to order the couriers to hand over their mission to the one who would be sent in their stead and return in post haste to the Capital.   

That was the end of it. Finally, Zakhertan leaned back and stretched out his limbs.

Grand Secretary Qarzten Caimund having concluded his assigned task expediently a short time earlier, had been waiting patiently for Zakhertan to finish his; he now came forward on the slight indication of Zakhertan Yozdek, to receive his verbal instructions in an ingenious code so secret that it was known only to the two.  Afterwards, Qarzten routinely picked up the order packets and, after bowing respectfully, hurried out the door to distribute them to the various department heads. All were required to work longer hours than the Sovereign.

The door quickly closed behind the Senior Grand Secretary, Zakhertan Yozdek watched with an uninterested blank stare Neru’s progress, then sat motionless in deep contemplative silence, dark clouds of thought swirling through his head and his guards only a whisper away.

    

                                                                                 ~    

    

Hastening out of the vestibule leading from the Imperial Chambers, the Senior Grand Secretary Qarzten Caimund’s head was full of the multiplicity of orders, arrangements, and duties that he must complete before the day’s session was over. So entangled was Qarzten Caimund in these thoughts that he did not see and nearly run into (collided with) a similarly distracted Crown Prince Herleif, as Prince rushed in the opposite direction armed with a stack of ancient scrolls and star charts.   

"On yet another urgent errand; are we, Master Caimund?"    

Prince Herleif’s tone, beneath that remark, grated on Qarzten Caimund’s nerves as it always did. The Senior Grand Secretary’s face tightened, and he averted his eyes for a moment, “You are such a barefaced weasel; still suckling your mother's milk after twenty-three years. Your derision is still palpable under that semblance of sarcasm.”  Qarzten Caimund looked squarely at the prince Herleif now and nodded tersely.

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"I gather His Highness is free now."  The Crown Prince, with typical arrogance, had completely ignored Qarzten's response to his barb and spoke now in the icy tone he used for the servants. "You will step aside to let me pass."    

“This hall will fit five armored guards marching abreast. Did you expect me to acknowledge this childish attempt to flaunt your authority? Let us see just how far your authority will get you.” Qarzten Caimund mocked the prince inwardly.

 

 "By all means." Qarzten smiled tightly as he half turned and shot a knowing glance towards the guards at the chamber doors, moving as slow as he could to antagonize prince Herleif.

"I would like to mention however, that this time may not be appropriate for an unannounced visit."  Qarzten Caimund informed the prince, in his even tone. "Perhaps, you should defer your objective of seeing His Highness this very evening unless, of course, it is a matter of the utmost importance." Qarzten tautly grimaced; but kept the words, “particularly the way you are clad; did you just leave one of your debauched (decadent, base) bashes?” and derisively (scathingly, sarcastically) looked away.

"Impudent wretch, how dare you treat me like an imbecile (dullard) child.” The Prince Herleif's protruding earlobes had turned beet red, as he, seething in contempt, violently shoved the Senior Grand Secretary aside. "Wait until I am your Sovereign, you arrogant dog!"  His face suffused with anger and a stream of abuse gushing off inwardly, he strode quickly forward to cross the vestibule in only a second.  

Caught unaware by this outburst of temper, the Senior Grand Secretary Qarzten Caimund had dropped one of the sealed envelopes onto the marble floor. Anger smoldered in his breast as he stooped to pick it up and his face distorted with contempt. Half-turning his head, he witnessed the Prince Herleif’s way being barred by the two stout guards who had crossed pikes in front of the door to the Imperial Chambers.  

Herleif’s face reddened by rage and pressed menacingly against the senior guard’s, the prince growled, "Are you going to announce me or not? Fine! Step aside, for I mean to walk in immediately and report your insolence myself." 

04-PRINCE HERLEIF YOZDEK (2)

“Go ahead and slither in, you miserable worm, but you won't, will you?” Qarzten Caimund drew in a breath through his teeth then, catching the guard's eye, gave him a simple nod. He had proven his point.  

"I shall inform His Highness of your presence immediately." The stone-faced guard, not in the least perturbed, responded mechanically. "Please wait here, Prince Herleif."  Turning smartly, he stepped up to the door and knocked. After receiving begrudging consent, he opened the door and abjectly entered. After crossing half of the room and bowing briskly, he announced Price Herleif’s presence outside and his request to see the Sovereign.

 "What does that fool want now?' Zakhertan Yozdek snorted impatiently, expecting no answer, and turned his back to the guard to stare out at the serene scenery.   

 Awaiting orders, the guard had stood silently at attention, while at outside, under the transitory (brief) amused gaze of the departing Qarzten Caimund, Prince Herleif had for a spell simmered at his father's disdainful words. Then, he took in a slow breath and composed himself; subsequently, his hand reached inside his pocket, withdrew a rolled-up document, and waited.

 

                                                                                            ~

 

Sovereign Zakhertan Yozdek with a blank expression, meanwhile, had continued to stare outside at the placid (tranquil) garden; his stern gaze next, focusing on the oblivious bird, taking in a drink or two from the fountain. Different troubling thoughts however, grievously (incorrigibly) and unbidden, anew robbed him of the peace he sought.

“If only Qijerrik had not turned on me.”  Zakhertan’s cold eyes blinked, filled with a deep hurt as he hissed out a long breath and shook his head. “If only my firstborn had lived instead of this wretched spawn.”  The grievous loss, the events of those days long gone, rushed in to crowd his mind again, searing his heart and soul with self-recrimination and regret. When the stabbing constriction in his chest became too overwhelming, Zakhertan summoned his will to push it aside and concentrated instead, on the positive attributes of his late son.

Zakhertan recollected fondly now with perfect clarity his proudest moments of Qijerrik. From the start, he’d been an offspring worthy of his sire. Not only Prince Qijerrik was most handsome warrior, as he was tall and athletic, though bit more handsome than him; but he had also been endowed with the same temperament, the same wits, tactical brilliance, and akin (parallel) martial ability (prowess) to Zakhertan at a corresponding age.

Zakhertan had hung great many hopes on his son Qijerrik’s shoulders after noting the potential in the boy, especially after, at age fifteen Prince Qijerrik had become, under his strict tutelage (guidance), an accomplished and indomitable warrior. What was more, Prince Qijerrik thrived on dangerous military campaigns just as Zakhertan did. The more perilous the task or more challenging the combat action the greater the thrill, the deeper the sensation the young Prince would derive from it. This feeling was one only Zakhertan would understand and, they were not just father and son but kindred spirits.  

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But then cruel, capricious fate had instigated, on that fateful seventeenth’ year of his son's life, those infamous chain of events that had led up to his son’s betrayal, all of which were now permanently etched in Zakhertan 's memory by the same cursed talent that served him so well in his bureaucratic duties. Consistently every evening, as soon as he had time to himself, they had surfaced despite his best efforts to quash them and, fiercely, obsessively haunted his peace and tormented his soul.     

If only he had acted more swiftly and without qualm to stem the divergent tide earlier.    

 As it was Zakhertan had been preoccupied with obliteration of resurgent rebel forces at 

Wenjenkun’s western borders, while same time he was constrained to adopt far more severe, more brutal measures to eradicate the infestation the serious unrest by the rising literati (intellectuals or educated class) within Capital Province Holger. Unfortunately, while he was otherwise engaged, the contrary seed had been planted and had germinated in the one Zakhertan had least expected. That single oversight had cost him his firstborn son. When he became aware of this fact, of course by then he could not have altered the outcome, not in the slightest.   

Again, considering his then options in hindsight, Zakhertan shrugged with a certain resignation, admitting to himself that he could not have done otherwise for, on that cursed day when the dark flotilla of clouds congregated ominously on the horizon atop the rising sun, his beloved son Qijerrik, had insisted on, and unfortunately received, his permission to lead vanguard in the attack against the rebel scholars.  After all, Zakhertan had no reason to doubt his son's competence.     

The campaign had gone well enough, with the Imperial forces emerging victorious as expected; after which came the punitive action that wreaked total devastation on the entire populous which had aided and shielded the defiant scholars. Unfortunately, something had gone awry, something else quite unforeseen had transpired either on the battlefield or in aftermath, which had forever altered his beloved son Prince Qijerrik.      

The rebel army had fought gallantly and employed brilliant tactics right up until the bitter end, but that would not have brought about that kind of change in Qijerrik, for he had bested gallant foes before. Was it the gruesome mass suicide of the rebel forces when all hope had been lost? Or was it the subsequent events, the countrywide hunt for and the extreme persecution of the many sympathizers? Could it have been the madness of the pillaging, the extensive carnage and mass extermination of the scholar class? Or was it simply the proliferation (creation) of the earthen mounds that had contained within it, countless living bodies of men, women, and children? Could any of these or all, have been the contributing factors?

“No! Absolutely not! Qijerrik was no weakling coward. “Zakhertan once more vehemently denied that hurtful notion. It had to have been something entirely different, something inconceivable and one day he (Zakhertan) would surely pinpoint the real cause. Zakhertan yet again lied to himself. Technically that had been the day he had lost his firstborn son for, from that day forth Prince Qijerrik had undergone a drastic change in heart, mind, and character. He had become increasingly unruly and finally, downright disobedient.  

“If only my son had been a fallen casualty in war.” Zakhertan mulled over, though he surmised that, in a sense, Qijerrik had been just that.  

“Could the fault have been partly his? He should have listened to his son more?”    

“If only he’d paid more attention and timely intervened with apt measures to protect and isolate Qijerrik from those damaging influences, instead of reacting in anger and ostracizing his son for being contrary and too outspoken?” Zakhertan once more pondered on the nagging concerns, with his empty gaze affixed on the swaying trees (that seemed to be bowing obsequiously), for the wind had just then picked up in the garden.  

 “Had he been too stringent? Had he pushed his son too hard, too soon? No, that was not it either.” Zakhertan scowled. Whatever he might have done wrong, one thing was for certain: he had never been lax in Qijerrik’s upbringing or discipline. In fact, up until that time, Zakhertan had taken an active interest and taken great care in ensuring that Qijerrik had received proper, well-rounded education in both civil and military.   

“Then, how could he have failed to instill in the boy, the most important filial virtue, right alongside loyalty and honor?”  Zakhertan was angry and remained at a loss to find reasons for that drastic change in Qijerrik and the subsequent, catastrophic series of events. Searing fury rose in him anew as he recalled the distressing incident in Council when his son sharply stood up in front of all assembled, to openly oppose him. Admittedly, it was over a minor issue, but the act was still one of open, brazen defiance; a legitimate move under the law but it harbored graver undercurrents which would expose Zakhertan’s single weakness and challenge his overall authority in Imperial Court.

 Zakhertan Yozdek regretted now not using right there and then the provisions in the law which would have allowed him to exercise his option to incarcerate Qijerrik summarily. If only he had imprisoned him, indefinitely or even executed him, instead of banishing him?

Zakhertan had repeated the same haunting question thousands of times and each time the same regret, recrimination, hurt, disappointment, furious rage, and bitterness gripped his heart, in that merciless, wrenching grip. Had he done that, he would have spared himself the mortifying, wounding torment of knowing that his beloved son, his own flesh, and blood, was capable of such treachery against him and all he stood for.

There was one other in the family, his youngest sister, who had likewise betrayed him; but Zakhertan had understood and eventually forgiven her for her misplaced loyalty, for she’d from the first, been deeply infatuated (besotted) with her husband, Lord Shonne Gulbrand. But to be so betrayed by his once beloved son was something Zakhertan had never expected or imagined as a possibility. Each time that memory surfaced, the same fierce indignation and fury welled up from the depths of his soul and he suffered that akin, bittersweet sensation of bile rising to his mouth, as the day Prince Qijerrik’s war slogans had reached his ears.

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Zakhertan’s eyes had burned with intense heat from reading those seditious adages posted for all to see in the towns’ squares, which rallied the populous restive and ripe, for an all-out rebellion. Those contemptible words (like gnawing parasites) were permanently etched (engraved) in his brain. One of those had said: “Arise good people who has suffered for so long under the severity of despotic Zakhertan Yozdek's oppressive regime, time to oppose his repressive laws and demand reckoning for the wrongs that had never been redressed; unite and take up arms, for yours is the righteous cause!”    

“My son, my most beloved son; how deeply you’d injured me!”  Zakhertan’s mouth presently, creased into a grimace of pain for each one of those seditious words had been a stiletto in Zakhertan’s heart and the damage hence, had been irreparable.

Zakhertan would have judged Qijerrik more leniently, had all this been done because of high ambition, Prince wanting to seize the throne for himself; that Zakhertan could have lived with, but Qijerrik had taken on the mantle of a liberator.     

This had been unforgivable, and it had unleashed the culmination of all that unbridled fury Zakhertan Yozdek had amassed in him; consequently, he had acted swiftly and more savagely than ever before to bring about total devastation of innumerable (myriad) Wenjenkuners.

 

(END OF SECTION 5)    

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)