Abbalar Tales ~ 1

 

Abbalar Tales~ 1 House of Corvalen

by Len Morgan 

 The moons of Abbalar rule the night, Vexen and Veinen, one red and one blue.  Astrologers warn they are badly aspected when neither is dominant; boding ill for those who venture forth beneath their pale violet light.

Ahlendore, Prince of the ruling house of Corvalen, gazed up at the sky.   He was not concerned.  He had plans for a night in the arms of a young woman, an adherent to the loose morals of her Northern homeland, Bellorne.   He smiled, his vitality stirring at the expectation of her firm generous form, willing compliance, and her affinity with the intimate act.   Eldoriel was the wife of Grym-Baal, a Huren merchant with wide pecuniary interests.   His influence at the court of Corvalen was growing, thanks largely to the patronage of Prince Fazeil; Ahlendore’s eldest brother.  Ahlendore would not allow his plans to be influenced by that.

But, first, he had a meet at the ‘Bag-o-Bones’.

 .-…-. 

"More ale Anja!"

"More wine over here girl!"

"Where's my mutton stew?"

"Anja?  You're wanted!"

 

She sighed and took a final gaze through the haze of blue tabacc smoke at the four young men deep in conversation in a nearby booth.

"His name is prince Ahlendore,” said Marra the other serving girl, following Anja's gaze, “he's only the Caliphs 13th son.  If you want to keep your job I'd suggest you forget him and start serving the customers at your tables!" 

"Mmm," Anja sighed.

"What's going on here," the inkeep demanded.  "Get out there

and make my customers happy.  Now!"  He slapped Anja playfully on the rump.

Anja lifted a tray full of drinks and disappeared into the bustle and chaos of the public bar. She'd been working at the Bag-o-Bones for just over two months, in that time she'd learned to keep her ears and eyes open, and her mouth shut.  Any gossip would be shared with the others at closing time.

"Your wasting your time with him," said Marra in a slack moment, "He'll probably be killed off in the Kull.  Anja looked blank. "When the old Caliph dies, don't you know?  They say he won't live the week out.  Then his sons will fight over the succession.  One will become the new Caliph within the year following his death, it will probably be Fazeil.  The others will either swear allegiance to him or be killed off in the struggle.  Factions are gathering, I imagine that's what those four are plotting," she nodded towards Ahlendore and his companions.

The Inn door opened and a tall slim dark-skinned man in long flowing desert garb entered.  He pulled back his hood, planted his six-foot staff firmly, looking around for an empty place. 

Marra gave him a pleasant smile.  "Can I get you something?"

"A little watered wine please, and some of that tempting stew," he said twitching his nostrils.   

"I'm surprised you can smell it over the smoke and tallow," she said, “all the wine is watered,” she confided.

His face widened in a cherubic smile, "It has been a long day and I have travelled far, do you have rooms?" 

"We do sir, do you have luggage?"

He raised a worn sack from his shoulders and took a seat.  He looked around as if searching for someone.  His dark brown eyes alighted on Ahlendore; he took a seat and sipped at his wine.

"Your room is ready sir, this way?"

He nodded, and followed her.  He returned, to find fresh bread and stew waiting at his table, he ate hurriedly but drank sparingly.  He watched as Ahlendore left the Bag-o-Bones alone, and followed discreetly.

.-…-. 

“Well met little rich boy,” said a voice from the shadows.  

A sixth sense had warned Ahlendore he was being followed but he’d chosen to ignore it.

“If you lay your purse down before you now, and leave the way you came, like a good lad, then you will live to greet the dawn,” the voice promised.

Without moving he cast about, with all his senses, but could detect no others.   It must be an opportunist he thought drawing his blade.

“Oh dear, it seems we will have to kill him after all,” said the voice.

He waited with his back to the wall.   Mayhap it was a bluff, but the voice sounded pretty confident.   Were there two, or three, could he handle four of them?   Corvalen streets were narrow, and unevenly cobbled, if he stood his ground they might get in each other's way but were they ahead of him, behind, or both?

“Help, footpads call the Watch!”   He yelled.   Flushing his lungs and promoting the flow of adrenaline, whilst hopefully, sowing the seeds of doubt and uncertainty in the minds of his would-be attackers.  

The voice responded with a mirthless laugh that echoed from a nearby alley; hitherto hidden in shadows.   They did not reveal themselves by sound or action.   They had done this before, they were professionals.   Hardened assassins, waiting for him to break and run, but he would not react.

“Come on boy, don’t waste our time, we have business to attend to elsewhere.”

He remained silent, concealed in shadow resisting the urge to move.  Minutes passed, and the quality of light changed subtly, or mayhap his eyes had become accustomed to the conditions, he fancied he could see men crouching in the shadows opposite.   But could they see him?   Carefully, he moved his head to left and right confirming there were four of them plus their leader in the alley.   Slowly, he eased out his dagger, hardly moving at all.   Still, nobody moved.   He continued to wait them out.   Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and his heart jumped with elation.   More than one person he decided, even steps, it could be the Watch on their nightly rounds of the City streets?   At last, a little luck he thought, something to force their hand.

“Help, Footpads, call the Watch!” he yelled again.

The men on either side moved in swiftly to silence him but, he was no longer there, he was in the alley where he knew their leader would be waiting; the fifth attacker.   He heard curses behind him, a yell of pain, as the two men unwittingly attacked each other.   There before him, a shadow separated from the darkness.

“Ahlendore” said a familiar voice.   He racked his brain to place it as he dropped to one knee, hugging the shadows trying not to present a regular shape.   He would have only seconds before the others entered the alley, then he would be trapped.   He heard running feet behind him and got a sinking feeling in his stomach.   A fleeting backward glance revealed, momentarily, two figures silhouetted against the approaching lantern light.   He stabbed out at the first, who stumbled and fell heavily, the second stumbled over the body presenting Ahlendore with an opportunity to hit him with the pommel of his sword; he slumped over his comrade and went limp.   Ahlendore heard fleeing footsteps and turned to see their leader hightailing it down the alley, away from the conflict.  He wiped his blade on the shirt of the unconscious man and heard a groan from the one he had skewered.

He heard a member of the Watch called out.

“These two are Prince Fazeil’s men.”

Ahlendore realised then this had been no chance meeting.   He had become a creature of habit, predictable, and therefore an easy mark, an elementary mistake born of overconfidence.  He cursed under his breath and turned to head in the same direction as his erstwhile assailant.  After all, the evening was promised to a young woman and he did not intend to disappoint her or, give his brother Fazeil the satisfaction of setting his plans awry.   

“A moment if you please, young man, you look to be in a hurry but, for fetching the watch and rescuing you from your predicament, might I have the satisfaction of a few words face to face?”   The voice had a Northern lilt with its quaint phrasing.   The silhouette was tall and slim; he carried a stave and exuded an aura of calmness.

“Pardon my manners,” Ahlendore replied, approaching him with outstretched hand.

“You will pardon my surprise?   I had intended to request a formal meet with you on the morrow.  You are, I believe, Prince Ahlendore,” He said.

“You have the advantage of me.”

“I am Wizomi, the storyteller.  I hope that we might speak of matters that will ultimately transpire to our mutual advantage.   May I call upon you?”

“Of course, but I am late for an assignation, I must run,” they shook hands in haste.

“Just tell me one thing,” Wizomi asked, “were you aware that I was following you?”

 “Ah, so it was you.   I knew somebody was there.”

“And yet at no time was I visible to you,” said Wizomi, “does that tell you anything?”

“That I should take more heed of my sixth sense?” He said.

“Quite so,” Wizomi replied.”   He smiled fixedly following Ahlendore’s receding figure with remarkably childlike blue eyes.  

“Young men, always in a hurry,” he shook his head and smiled wistfully remembering, another such young man, many decades past. 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan