Abbalar Tales ~ 4

 

Abbalar Tales ~  4 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

Genna Valloo rested, thoughtfully on her stave, in the shade of a ramshackle construction that somebody, out here 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 just as well be twenty miles.   To own and run such an establishment, she thought, would require wealth and riches beyond her wildest dreams but, for as long as she could remember, to be Madame of the 'Pochette Platzi', had always been her dream.  It was the cities grandest and most notorious house of pleasure.  It had been intentionally situated at arms length from Corvalen’s polite society; it mattered not a jot, to her, that it was situated outside the protection of the city walls.   

But not today!   She shrugged off the muse, today exciting things were happening, momentous things.   News had come that the Caliph was dead.   The Kull had begun and there was fighting in the streets.   His sons would even now be locked in a life and death struggle from which only one would survive to become the Prince Regent.   Then, after twelve months, he would succeed his father the Caliph Endrochine.   A young woman had been decapitated in the foreign quarter of the city, and as Genna watched, a dozen Huren dog soldiers escorted a 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?   Whatever it was, it would be worth investigation', she thought.  'Where there's an escorted wagon there’s invariably profit to be had.' 

Genna was an orphan, she had lived her whole life on the streets around the fringes of the city, all fifteen years of it.   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 decent profit.   Goods, services, information, she had brokered them all.   She was a rangy girl, with a dusky complexion, darkened several shades by the suns incessant gaze, to a deep sienna.   She was quick of wit and limb, she displaying remarkable shrewdness, and judgement far beyond her years.   She was patience itself, except where her 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; Her puberty would happen without any help from her.   Now was the time for action, she who hesitates is lost, was a phrase written indelibly, in her mind, 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, and the money 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 would ever need, and one day mayhap…   Well, she could dream, but only once a day dreams do not provide food.   Her next stop would be the nearest well, to fill her water skins, and then she would be off in pursuit of that mysterious caravan.   She regretted not being able to let Asba know where she was going, he liked her to keep him 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 return 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!"

 

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 was happening.  Watching as they first covered him with treacle then watered him 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 him from 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, 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 be 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 on the verges of consciousness, he could feel burning pains, in his wrists and ankles, and imagined he could taste water on his lips and 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 eye to see the silhouette of Eldoriel, that beautiful young woman, bending over him trickling 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 Genna," 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 she saw mirrored 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, usually 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 Corvalen.   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 time.   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 the hour," 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.   Genna 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 continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan