Corvalen 1 ~ 02 - An unfortunate Happenstance
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as
he climbed the ancient vine to her casement, feeding and intensifying his expectations. He entered her apartments soundlessly. Only one flickering patchouli-scented lamp
was lit, leaving most of the room in deep shadow. He moved silently to her bedside.
“Eldoriel”
he called softly, omitting the flowery epithets, and words of endearment
employed by other men, as a precursor to foreplay, he knew they were
unnecessary. Carefully he drew back the
curtains, leaning over to kiss her lightly on the left cheek. She felt cold to the touch and did not
respond. Cupping her face gently
between his hands, he turned her head to face him. It came away from her body, in his hands.
"Aaagh!" He cried out involuntarily, with shock and
horror, dropping the bloody thing onto the bed. His eyes, now accustomed to the gloom,
stared fixedly at her severed head; momentarily his mind and limbs froze as he
shook uncontrollably. Then suddenly,
the room was alive with people all shouting and yelling at the same time. Hands grabbed for him. He tore free, as if in a dream, and headed
towards the window. His way was barred
by two hefty but cumbersome eunuchs, the merchant’s personal bodyguard. He dodged past them easily reaching the open window
in an instant. But almost toppled out,
onto the pavement far below, as an empty wine flagon shattered against his
skull. Lights flashed before his eyes,
and he staggered. Through the fog in
his brain, he retained the presence of mind to grasp the top of the vine and
dive through the opening half climbing, half sliding, twenty feet to the
ground. His landing was mistimed
knocking the wind out of him. He sat in
the courtyard dazed, for precious seconds, then without warning another heavy
pot fell from above, smashing loudly close by, bringing him to his senses. He struggled to his knees but, as he strove
to rise, a third missile struck him rendering him unconscious.
"Wake
up!" Somebody yelled harshly in
his ear, slapping his face. He was
shaken roughly and doused with cold water. He groaned and shook his aching head
realising, in that instant, his hands were bound behind him. As he opened his eyes he found them watering
and puffy, little more than slits. He
tasted blood in his mouth and felt sick.
He had been systematically beaten and every inch of his body was wracked
with pain. As his eyes focused, he
recognised Grym-Baal, gesticulating angrily, his voice droning on and on,
seemingly from a great distance, in his thick, scarcely intelligible, Huren
accent.
"Even
your lawless heaven forsook nobility will now recognise your flagrant affront,
to my dignity, and accede to my right to redress…” he yelled triumphantly.
"They
will consider I have bestowed honour, on the house of Baal, by planting royal
Kurdik seed in the belly of your Bellorne concubine! They may even demand a stud fee!" he
added with arrogance.
"She
is dead! You still have her blood on
your hands and clothing, you killed her.
There is no way you can escape retribution. I have rights!"
"I
most certainly did not kill her! She
had already been despatched by another before I even entered her chamber. Though after consideration, and under the
circumstances, I am sure they will waive the stud fee…" he said bluffing
in an off-hand manner, as he again attempted to rise gingerly to his feet.
With
murder in his eyes Grym-Baal launched a ferocious attack, beating Ahlendore to
the floor, continuing to kick and beat him where he lay."
"I
could seek satisfaction, and kill you in hand to hand combat, but there is
always the chance you might triumph and thwart me, I will not risk that! You caused her infidelity, you brought about
her death, and now you are going to pay!"
"Very
well," said Ahlendore in a conciliatory manner, "She was from
Bellorne and delightfully experienced, which will, of course, increase her value
considerably," he said, still attempting to carry the bluff, "How
much do you consider she was worth?"
"Far
more than your wastrel life!" he replied his voice ice cold and bitter
with anger, “a damned good deal more.”
"But,
I did not kill her, I was simply the unlucky cove caught with his finger in the
honey pot, so to speak, it could have been anyone. My family will not permit…"
"Your
family? Your brother, Fazeil himself,
informed me of your involvement with my wife and bade me take you with his
blessing. He paid a tidy sum in gold to
ensure you are discredited and despatched, prior to your father’s demise. Being an honourable man, of course, he could
not do so himself but, it has been agreed, I should deal with you as I see
fit."
"I
do not believe that…" Ahlendore replied.
"Gag
him and put him in the wagon," another voice commanded; a course gravely
voice.
He
kicked and threshed about "Murder!!!" He yelled with all the force of his lungs.
He
received curses, punctuated with blows, in return for his trouble and landed
with bone-shattering force in the back of a wagon.
"You
will receive Huren justice boy. You
will wish I had run you through with a rapier, but I am determined your death
will be slow, painful and lingering, allowing you time to reflect long and well
on your misdeeds. You will be staked
out in the sun, to be eaten alive by ants, scavenger crabs, and birds. This is the preferred fate for lecherous
adulterers who misappropriate the affections of virtuous married women of the
civilised Huren states." He
salivated, licking his lips, with anticipation. "I seriously considered castration but
there is always a risk of the victim dying under the knife, cheating the
injured party of his vengeance, which in this case has been painstakingly and
meticulously planned. But, who knows,
you may get lucky and still find yourself on the wheel of life in time to
welcome your father when he passes over." His manic laughter rang in Ahlendore's
ears, as he removed the gag, "I will allow you to beg for your life now if you've a mind," he sneered.
"Help
murder, bloody murder!" he yelled again.
He
was silenced quickly with the now all too familiar tirade of blows. When next he awoke, they were already out in
the western desert, where days are hotter than a kiln hearth and nights as
frozen as the far northern reaches. He
found he was still securely bound, frozen to the boards and unable to name a
single part of his anatomy that was free from pain. Every jolt of the wagon brought further
misery adding bruises to existing bruises.
He bore it stoically in silence, concentrating his energies on attempting
to escape. He tensed his arms, legs,
chest, and any other part of his body that might aid him in loosening the
bonds. He groaned involuntarily from
the waste of effort and energy. ‘What if he didn't get out of this? He had not yet faced that possibility; he
might not survive,’ that first niggling thought 'a seed of doubt' germinating,
and growing like a cancer in his mind.
Another day passed, he remained trussed and without sustenance, his
resolve was beginning to crumble. 'Mayhap I will not become Caliph after all,'
he thought with genuine regret. He had
plenty of time to think on such matters, as the wagon trundled inevitably
onwards. For a seemingly intelligent
man, he’d been incredibly stupid. Grym
was right, he'd acted badly, and openly without considering the consequences
for either himself or for others. With
that realisation came remorse and regret, he'd been a fool, blinded by his own
lust and selfish desires
.-...-.
He
knew exactly where he was. For the last
three days, he'd eaten nothing but fine white powdered sand which to his
certain knowledge came from one place only, the Western Desert
"This
will do," he heard Skaa call out, in his now familiar abrasive voice.
Moments
later he was thrown unceremoniously from the wagon.
"Stake
him out!"
Four
three-foot stakes were driven into the ground leaving just ten inches proud of
the close-pack powdered sand.
"Its
nothing personal," Skaa said conversationally, grinning from ear to ear
and speaking just inches from his face.
He could smell stale ale and tobac on the
older man's breath.
"I
actually quite like you boy, we are kindred spirits, we both tasted the
delights of the delectable Eldoriel. It's
just a job you understand?" He
paused to light his pipe. "Heh Heh! Stud fee!
That was an inspired touch. You
had him foaming at the mouth he damned nearly killed you with his bare hands
then and there. You could have cost me a
fortune if I hadn't acted swiftly to pull him off."
As
he listened, he was conscious that others were tying thick strips of wet
leather to his ankles and wrists.
Stretching and securing them firmly to the stakes.
Skaa
patted his cheek, "Best of luck boy.”
He came closer and whispered intimately, "She was good though
wasn't she?" he was grinning all the while. "That should do it," he told his
men, as he rose and headed towards his mount.
"You
killed her?" Ahlendore said accusingly his voice and eyes betraying his
surprise.
Skaa
stopped halfway, turned and leered, "I don't think you’re in a position to
do anything about it, do you?" He
laughed coldly, do you have any last requests?
Anything? Some last words of
contrition you would like me to pass on to Grym-Baal?"
"Yes! Tell him in future I will stick to
whores. They are more discriminating in
their choice of partners, they are cleaner, and offer less risk of the
pox!"
The man laughed again then, on reaching his horse, he turned reflectively and
retraced his steps. "There’s something I forgot, to do..." He said, proceeding to urinate in the
unfortunate boys face. He took a step
back gesturing encouraging his men to do likewise. He just stood there watching, grinning. When Ahlendore thought his humiliation was
complete, one of them handed the grizzled veteran a large salt glazed jug. Removing the cork with his brown tobac
stained teeth he proceeded to pour thick black molasses over the boy’s head,
face, arms, legs, and feet, covering every exposed skin surface.
Ahlendore
swallowed as much as he could, licking his lips and face hungrily.
Skaa
backed away from him, leaving a thin black trail on the white sand.
"The
ants will soon be coming to woo you, they will take you to their nest for a
grand feast, piece by piece! Haha
ha!" He laughed again and the
others joined in. Moments later,
without further talk, they mounted and rode off in the direction they had come.
He
shuddered inwardly 'ants, I hate ants, so
uncompromising and so bloody efficient'.
He could feel the vibrations from the
horses' hooves long after the sounds had died away. Now he was alone, he felt the pangs of
hunger and thirst more acutely than ever before. He turned his head from side to side to
encourage the few remaining droplets of molasses to flow in the right
direction, towards his mouth, he managed by trial and error to gain a little
additional sustenance, and also a measure of protection from the sun, thanks to
the coagulating surface layer.
Gradually, the leather straps began to tighten around his wrists and
ankles, as the moisture leeched into the dry atmosphere. He began to lose the feeling in his
limbs. He responded by flexing, tensing,
and pulling, against his bonds. He
succeeded in stretching them, just a little; taking heart from this he
redoubled his efforts.
Corvalen 1 ~ A
fortunate happenstance
Hurda rested, thoughtfully on her stave, in
the shade of a ramshackle construction that somebody, on the fringes of
Corvalen, called home. She oft stood
there gazing across at a two-story brick and stucco building; it looked so out
of place in these surroundings. There
it stood, just twenty feet away, across the busiest road into the city but it
may as well be twenty miles off. To own
and run such an establishment, would require wealth and riches beyond her
imaginings yet for as long as she could remember, owning it had been her
dream. Hurda Madame of the 'Pochette
Platzi' the cities grandest, and most notorious, house of pleasure. It had been intentionally sited at arm's
length from Corvalen’s polite society.
It mattered, not to her, that it was situated outside the protection of
the city.
But
not today! She shrugged off the
muse. Today exciting things were
happening, momentous things. The old
Caliph was dead, and the kull had begun.
There was fighting in the streets, even now his sons would be locked in
a life and death struggle from which only one would survive and become the
Prince Regent. Then after twelve months, he would succeed his father, on the Karveel stone throne, as Caliph of
Corvalen. Yester-even a young woman had
been decapitated in the foreign quarter of the city. As she watched, a dozen Huren dog soldiers
escorted a covered wagon out into the western desert. They rode straight as a lance shaft, away
from the main road, out into the land of the dead.
'Why? What
was in that wagon? What was of such
interest to them out there? What-ever,
it would be worth investigation',
she thought. 'Where there's an escorted wagon there’s invariably profit to be had.'
.-...-.
Hurda was an orphan, she had lived her whole
life, fifteen years, on the streets around the fringes of the city. She was a loner, who survived by turning
happenstance to her advantage. She
possessed an innate curiosity and a sense for knowing what was saleable and
would turn a profit. Goods, services,
information, she had brokered them all.
She was a rangy girl with a dusky complexion, darkened to a deep sienna,
by the incessant gaze of the sun. She
was quick of wit and limb, displaying remarkable shrewdness and judgement far
beyond her years. She was patience
itself except where her own physical development was concerned. It was happening, at its own pace, but far
too slowly for her liking. She felt like
a woman trapped in a child's body. She
knew there was nothing she could do about that, puberty would come in its own
good time. Now was the time for action ‘she who hesitates is lost’ was a phrase
written indelibly on her brain and this, she believed, was an opportunity not
to be missed!
She
made a brief stop off at the lean-to shelter, she shared with five others, to
eat and fill her back-sack with supplies.
She collected the funds she had not yet invested with her mentor, and
banker, Asba Dylon. Asba was an
important counsellor at the royal court, she smiled as she thought of him. He had been as much a father to her as she
could ever want, one day mayhap… Well,
she could dream but only once a day, dreams do not put food in your belly. Her next stop would be the nearest well, to
fill her water skins, then she could be off in pursuit of that mysterious
caravan. She regretted not being able
to tell Asba where she was going he liked to be kept informed of her movements.
.-…-.
By mid-morning of the third day she was
thinking 'this was a mistake, these dogs
intend riding all the way to the Sabre-Toothed mountains. Already I've used a third of my
supplies. They are a'horse whilst I am
a'foot.’ She wracked her brain but could not recall any
habitation closer than two days walk from her current position. She stopped; finally resolved to cut her
losses and returning home. For once her
instinct had played her foul except, her innate curiosity rebelled and led her on
for another hour, she still had to discover what they were about. Her persistence was rewarded.
"This will do!" One of them said.
She
skirted their position, carefully erasing her own tracks as she circled the
wagon party. A full lodestone point -
anti-clock - placed her on a small dune above them with the sun at her back. She watched the young man being thrown
unceremoniously from the wagon. She
winced in sympathy as events unfolded before her. She lay prone, level with the lip of the dune,
straining her ears and eyes to make sense of what transpired. Watching as they first watered him then
covered him with treacle before finally riding off, leaving him to the
elements.
She
thought long and hard on how she could turn this to profit. 'Who
was he? Why had they gone to so much
trouble? What had he done?'
She
watched him struggle and thresh, he had no intention of giving up. 'He's
a game one,’ she thought. Mayhap I
could sell him to the slavers of Maal, just three or four day’s journey? They were within range, but they would see
she had a weak hand and probably take the both of em.
"Bastards!" He yelled, “my father will hear of
this!"
'Sounds like quality' she thought, 'Mayhap
I should sit and wait a while, let him simmer a little, let the reality of his
situation sink in. An hour ought to do
it'.
She
pulled back off the dune a little, ate some biscuit, cheese, and figs. She drank sparingly, if she was to stretch
it for two, she would need to be frugal.
Finally, she rose, it was time to confront him. She approached from the sun'ard.
.-…-.
He
lay on his back, eyes closed, facing the sky for how long, he didn't know, it
seemed like hours. He had long since
given up on the possibility of rescue.
The sun sank slowly down towards the horizon, when it dipped out of
sight he knew it would start to grow cold.
In his mind, he pictured the beautiful young girl from Bellorne, which
was what she had been, a girl. Eldoriel
was even younger than he, with potentially a full life ahead, and yet she had
been dead these four days. She died
because of the kull, because of his…
That distant man, a stranger to his own flesh, he remembered having to
wear his best clothes to visit Papa in his study. Yet Papa could only spare moments and never
ever remembered his name.
‘Why?’ He thought. ‘Who cares anyway, if I die now, or live
another sixty years?’
He
had lived his whole life with the spectre of death, when his father finally
returned to the wheel of life.
Ahlendore and his brothers had been schooled for leadership. His fifteen years had been consumed with
horsemanship, martial arts, weapon training, and tactics. Survival was their primary aim, but there
could be only one to rule. Whoever sat
on the Kaveel stone throne of Corvalen, on the anniversary of their father’s
death, would become the undisputed ruler.
Any survivors would pay homage or be despatched unceremoniously as
enemies of the state. He was thirteenth
in line of succession for the Caliphate of Corvalen. He was a fine swordsman, and one of Caliph
Endrochines more intelligent children and, an early developer in all
respects. He was arrogant and selfish,
just like his father, but could not see himself surviving sixty-eight years as
Endrochine had done following the death of his own father, and all but seven of
his own siblings.
A shadow fell across his face, 'this is it'
he thought, 'whatever happened to the
ants?' he wondered. He was drifting
just on the verge of consciousness. He
could feel the burning pains, in his wrists and ankles. He imagined he could feel water on his lips
and taste it trickling into his mouth.
He swallowed, easing his parched throat.
He swallowed, again and again, a dream mayhap but a very good one. He opened his slits of eyes to see the
silhouette of Eldoriel, that beautiful young woman, bending over him carefully
pouring water into his mouth from a skin bag. Was he already dead, he
wondered? He reached up and kissed her,
his hands were no longer tied. She drew
back from him, her hair now appeared shorter and black, her eyes brown instead
of blue…
"My name is Hurda," she said
"Don't try to speak, drink some more, but only a little," she paused
as he swallowed. "Good, now you
must try to eat something." She
placed some cheese in his mouth and he began to chew, she gave him a little
more water then, some chopped figs and when he had swallowed, another sip of
water. "You’re doing well"
she said encouragingly. "Can you
sit up? I tracked you from the
city. Your friends weren't very
sociable so I didn't introduce myself."
She gave him a wry smile which was parodied on his battered
features. She scraped away most of the
hardening molasses with her fingers "I should tell you now, I live on the
streets, where everything is done with a purpose in mind either profit or self-survival. So, tell me how I will profit
from rescuing you?"
His
mind hardened, "you’re a bounty hunter?"
"I
need to earn a living,” she said. “Most
girls of my age who have no rich family or patron are prostitutes. I am my own woman, beholding to no man, I
pay my way and I'm treated with respect by some of the lowest throat slitters
in the land. If you doubt me…" she
challenged standing and drawing her blades with lightning speed
"No,
I'm not questioning your ability or your integrity, in truth I'm not very proud
of myself at this moment. To date I
have profited none but myself, for which I feel deep shame. I might add you are most likely a better and
nobler person than I, despite the accident of birth." He smiled
weakly.
She
placed her ground cape about his shoulders, "If you can rise to your feet,
we'd best be moving away from here."
"Is
there something I should know?" he asked.
"Your
father is dead."
"You
know who I am?"
"No. But, I suspect you are one of the princes
who escaped the clutches of Regent Faziel, he will even now be searching for
you."
He
thought a while before speaking, "So my eldest brother is to succeed after
all. You could give me up to his
hunters?" he suggested.
"They
would probably kill me for the bounty, one or two I could handle but they tend
to run in packs of four or more, whilst I work alone. I would prefer to rely on you having a
private stash within easy reach. You
could pay me say;" she paused to calculate "half the bounty on your
head?"
"A
third!" he answered at once.
"If
I leave you here you're dead! You'll
never get out of this desert alive on your own.
You’re a soft farm-bred rooster; you need corn feed and comfort. I'm betting you wouldn't last three nights
alone," she stood up, shouldering her sack and water skins.
He
thought on it, "Half is fair and reasonable," he conceded
wearily. "So what do we do
now," he asked coming painfully to his knees, then with her assistance, to
his feet - on wobbly spring willow legs.
She
laughed; it was like music on a breeze.
When she spoke her voice was husky, her words easy on the ear, she was
direct and to the point, so refreshing to one bred on deceit and intrigue. He sensed she could be a good friend or a
deadly foe. He would much prefer her
friendship having taken to her from first meet.
"Lean
on me," she said adjusting her back-sack, and evenly distributing the
weight of the water skins across her shoulders. She handed him her stave, and they started
out, with the sinking sun at their backs, their shadows at right angles to the
wagon tracks; leading back to Corvalen.
"We are heading for Mandrell - it's a two
day trip - but we aren't moving that fast, so we will have to conserve our
water."
"There
is no rush is there, nobody knows where we are, do they?"
"The
Huren know where they left you, and as soon as they get back to the city they
will learn of your enhanced worth, 'dead or alive' you will be well worth a
second trip for those dog soldiers.
When they find you are gone, they will start to search."
"Shouldn't
we try to cover our tracks?" he suggested.
"We
will have to leave that to the wind.
It's a six-day return trip to Corvalen, anything could happen in that
time and probably will." She
replied.
They walked through the night, planning to
rest by day, but the morning was dull and cool, so they decided to keep walking
until the sun appeared; instead it grew darker.
"There
is going to be a storm within hours," she said pointed to the north and
clouds.
"At
least it will cover our tracks."
"We
will need to make as many miles a'foot as we can before it hits," She said
matter of fact, as she took yet another lodestone needle bearing, "it
could go on for days."
"I
feel OK to continue," he answered her implied question.
After
an hour, they stopped for food and water.
He appeared to have regained some of his strength. They continued walking, making better time
now. In two hours the storm hit and
they sheltered in the lee of a small dune, covering themselves with her ground
cape. She removed her sandals and fine
cotton hose - handed him one.
"Pull it over your head and face, to protect you from the
sand." She yelled above the howling wind.
They huddled together, both clinging on to the cape to hold it down
until the sand began to settle on top of it.
They lay beneath it, creating an intimate air space as the sand rapidly
covered them. Hurda held her stave
vertical between her feet and knees until it became a solid and immovable tent
pole.
"This
is bad," he said, "We could be buried alive and die here."
"This
is good!" she countered, "they will never know that you escaped, they
will assume you are somewhere back there" she pointed with her eyes,
"buried under ten feet of sand."
"Instead
of being buried under ten feet of sand here?"
"But,
we are not staked out and helpless are we?" she asked pointedly.
He
nodded slowly, we will see, come the
calm, he thought, “We shall see."
