Abbalar Tales ~ 3

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 3 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

As he climbed the ancient vine, to her casement, adrenaline coursed through his veins, feeding and intensifying his excitement and expectation.    He entered her apartments soundlessly.   Only one small patchouli-scented lamp was lit leaving the rooms in deep shadow.   He moved silently to her bedside.  

“Eldoriel” he called softly, he did not add flowery epithets, or words of endearment, as a precursor to foreplay, as other men might, 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, she did not respond.   Cupping her face gently between his hands, Ahlendor carefully turned her head to face him; it came away in his hands.

"Aaagh!"   He cried out involuntarily with shock and horror, dropping the 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 casement in an instant.   But almost toppled out, onto the pavement far below, as a large wine flagon shattered against his skull.   Lights flashed before his eyes, and he staggered.   Through the fog in his mind, he retained sufficient presence 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 dropped from above, smashing loudly close by, bringing him to his senses.    He struggled to his knees but, as he attempted to rise, a third missile struck him rendering him unconscious.

"Wake up!"   Somebody yelled harshly in his ear, slapping his face, shaking him roughly and dousing him with cold water.

He groaned and shook his aching head realising in that instant, his hands were bound behind him.  Opening his eyes he found them watering and puffy, little more than slits.   He tasted blood in his mouth and felt sick to his stomach.   He'd 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, in a thick scarcely intelligible Huren accent, as if from a great distance.

"Even your lawless heaven forsook nobility must now recognise this flagrant affront to my dignity and accede to my right of redress…” he yelled triumphantly.

"They will consider I have bestowed honour, on the house of Baal, by planting royal Corvalen seed in the belly of your Bellornian 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 wriggle out of it.   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 offhand manner, as he again attempted to rise gingerly to his feet.

Grym-Baal launched a ferocious attack, with murder in his eyes, beating Ahlendore to the floor and 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 despatched prior to your father’s demise, and before the Kull begins.   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 thrashed 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-jarring 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 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 in the more 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, thus 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, murder!" he yelled...

He was silenced quickly and efficiently 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 realizing it was a fruitless effort and a waste of energy.  

‘What if he didn't get out of this?   He had not yet faced the possibility he might not survive,’ that first niggling thought started to germinate and doubt grew, like a cancer, in his mind.  Another day passed, when he remained trussed and without sustenance, his resolve began 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 inexorably 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 course abrasive voice.  

Moments later he was thrown unceremoniously from the wagon. 

"Stake him out!"  

Four three-foot stakes were driven into the ground leaving one-third proud of the close-packed powdery 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 tobacc on the older man's breath.    "I actually quite like you boy, we are kindred spirits, 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 and pulled 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?   Any message for the living?  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 and watched, 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 tobacc 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!   Hahaha!"  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.   In his imagination, feeling the vibrations of horses’ hooves long after the sounds had died away, alone, feeling the pangs of hunger and thirst more acutely than ever before.  He shook his head from side to side to encourage the few remaining droplets of molasses to flow in the right direction, towards his mouth. Managing 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 out into the dry atmosphere.   He was losing the feeling in his limbs.  His response was to flex, tense and pull against his bonds.   He succeeded in stretching them, just a little; taking heart from this he redoubled his efforts.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan