Corvalen 1 ~ 02 - An unfortunate Happenstance

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."

To be Contiued/...