Abbalar Tales ~ 21

Abbalar Tales ~ 21 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

Skaa was silent on his return to Mandrell.   On arrival, he discovered that the other half of his band had long since returned to Corvalen, with Ahlendore's associates.   He was visibly annoyed that they had acted on their own initiative, instead of waiting for him to return.   He was firmly convinced that Ahlendore's associates would be of little or no value in Corvalen.   Ahlendore had certainly not had any intention of returning when they last met.   Granted, the lad had some affection for Genna, but Eldoriel had been his passion, the one who set his senses aflame.   Mine too, thought Skaa, with a grudging sigh of regret.  That storyteller Wizomi?   There was more to him than could be seen from the outside; he would have to take a much closer look at the man.

.-…-. 

This time, as they entered Corvalen, most of the unrest had passed or gone underground.   On the surface, it was business as usual.   But, when he returned to their old lodging house, the welcome was somewhat muted.  The atmosphere was distinctly frosty, then he saw one of his old associates enter the premises, he looked in two minds about leaving when he sighted Skaa, but he had already made eye contact.

"Balakar!   Come drink with me,” said Skaa in a friendly manner, “tell me, what have I been missing?"

"I- I'm a little busy at the moment…" Balakar began.

"Who is the captain?" said Skaa.

"You are the captain." He answered at once.

"Then sit, drink with me!" Skaa commanded.   Balakar complied without further protest.

He was acting nervously, which put Skaa on his guard, the man was a poor liar at best, but his loyalty had always been beyond question.   But now… he didn't know, he would have to tread warily.

"We got two more," said Balakar conversationally, "one in a farm just outside the city, the other at that 'Platzi place'.   She said there would be others, sticking close to home, keeping to familiar surroundings; we just have to be patient.   Jazime and her associates have located three more.   She has contacts amongst the desert tribes, who are passing her information…"

"Jazim?   Is she the leader now?" Skaa said fuming with rage.

"Well um…" Balakar stammered, "Mayhap you should come back to the house with me," he replied.

Half an hour on, they turned into a familiar street and entered the side courtyard of a house both knew well.

"This is the house of Grym-Baal," said Skaa.

"Yes," said Balakar, smiling as if at some private jest, then he led the way in through the side door.

Skaa had a bad feeling about it, he didn't like the direction things were going, but he followed anyway.

"Welcome home," said Grym in an uncharacteristically friendly manner.   "So clever of you to put your operation into the hands of a smart woman like Jazim."

He looked across the dimly lit room; all his erstwhile followers were arrayed behind Grym-Baal and the woman.  Even Frek, the one he'd always regarded as his own lap dog.

"You too Frek?   You would stab me in the back," he said with mock hurt in his voice.

"You could always rejoin us," Frek suggested.   "Of course you will only be one of the soldiers, and your share would be the same as ours, but, I'm betting your purse will be bigger than ever; more than you earned as our captain for sure."

"Frek?   That doesn't sound like you?”   Frek leered back at him."

"It's the best offer you are likely to get in this city," said Jazime, "all those who returned with you have signed up already, so you’re now on your own anyway.

"I can see that for myself.   I always thought I was a good judge of a man.   I must remember not to trust my own judgement in future."

She smiled in amusement, "Your obviously a formidable warrior and, by all accounts, a considerate lover too.   You are intelligent and your leadership qualities are well known…"

"When I need a character reference I'll ask for it!" he snapped.

"Mayhap we can start making use of your skills again, once you have proven your loyalty…"

"Prove my loyalty?   To whom!   This scurvy band of throat slitters?   I don't think they would ever question my loyalty to them, and before today I would have trusted my life to any one of them.   Loyalty to Grym-Baal?   He had our loyalty until he chose to throw it back in our faces.   Hence forth I will reserve my loyalty for one person alone, myself!"

"You could be loyal to me?" said Jazim.

"Never!   In order to receive loyalty, you must also be prepared to give it!   I hired you to help in tracking down enemies of the state.   You proved your loyalty to me, your employer, by stabbing me in the back."

"Kill him!"   Yelled Grym, his face flushed with anger.

"Quiet," she said calmly, countermanding his outburst, "sit down!," she said, Grym obeyed, without a murmur.

'That isn't right' Skaa thought.   'What manner of woman is she?'

"Crawling like the cur dog you are Grym?   Never thought I'd see you on a leash…"

"Aaaaarrggh!"   Grym flew at him like a madman, knife in hand.   Skaa hit him with a left to the stomach drawing his newly acquired blade with his right hand.   He side stepped Grym’s wildly slashing blade and slit his throat coolly and efficiently ear to ear.   Grym continued to howl, bubbles of air escaped with the arterial blood from his wound.

Skaa then turned his knife, on Jazim, and lunged towards her.   He felt the knife slice into flesh, and looked her straight in the eyes, a grin on his face.   She just grinned right back at him, triumph in her eyes, then his world exploded and everything went black. "Let him cool off a while in the cells, mayhap he will rescind that decision, 'never' is a long lonely journey…"

.-…-. 

Skaa awoke on the floor of a cold dark cell, with a raging thirst, ravenous hunger, and his head throbbed with a dull ache punctuated by sharp sporadic stabbing pains.   He was conscious of dried blood on the side of his face and in his hair.   A puddle had congealed where his head lay.   He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, willing his head to stop pulsing, he felt sick and wretched.   When he opened his eyes and gazed up at the ceiling he realised it was not totally dark.   There was a murky gloom, through which he could identify a bench and trestle seat, both firmly fixed to the floor.   There was light entering through a slit under the door, and faintly through a grill beneath the bench.   As he glanced towards the door, he could see shapes highlighted against the light.   On further investigation, he discovered a tray with a metal mug containing water, a plate of cold vegetable stew, and a hunk of rye bread.   As he sat there eating, he could see three other identical trays, each had been pushed further across the floor as the new one was pushed into the cell.   The fourth tray, furthest from the door, did not smell too fresh and the bread was rock hard.   He swapped his now empty tray with this one and picked up the second tray.   He ate its contents and drank the water, swapping it with the next in line.   He ate the bread and drank the water, leaving the stew untouched.    Feeling somewhat better, he wondered how regularly these meals arrived, once a day, or at odd intervals to confuse him.   He didn’t know.   He began a hasty but detailed search of the cell, he had to work fast, not knowing when they might return.   He discovered a pile of sacking and some old empty oil jars.  He arranged three large demijohns,, end to end and covered them with sacking.   Viewing them critically he was reasonably sure it would appear that he was either dead, unconscious, or sleeping.

There was little for him to do, but exercise his body, practising shadow fighting in the dark, and exercise his mind, his turmoil receded and he felt more at peace.   He reached inside himself, seeking spiritual balance, finally exhausted by his efforts he fell into a dreamless sleep.  At some point, he was awakened by somebody tapping on a pipe running through his cell.   The tapping was repeated several times, after short intervals.   It was a regular pattern, his first thought was that he was not alone, and he duplicated the pattern, at which point the tapping stopped.   He repeated it again, but it was not answered.   He sat by the door, on the lock side, with the heaviest of the jugs beside him.   He watched and waited patiently hour after hour, until the light faded altogether, and he finally dozed off again.   He was awakened by the insertion of a fifth tray into the cell.   But, before he could gather his wits and act, the door slammed shut.   He swore under his breath realising he would have to wait a further period for his chance at freedom.

Mayhap this was a disguised blessing.   How long had it been since he last took stock of his life?   Too long!   The highs and lows, plusses and minuses, he would use the time in a quest to replenish his spirit.   

He lay on his back facing the ceiling until it seemed at any moment, gravity would release its hold and he would fall onto the ceiling.  There it was again, a scraping sound.   Reality intruded on his muse.   He heard a muffled thump, and voices, that seemed to come from outside, beyond the grill.   He shook himself and rolled towards the grill, it was light out there, and he was in time to see the torso's of two rather shabbily dressed young people passing by.  A man and woman.  He listened, until he judged they would be out of earshot, then holding on to the bench uprights he used his feet as a ram to batter down the grill.   He moved so quickly from dark to light, that for a moment he was totally blinded.   Cracking his eyes, he could see the crumbling plaster around the frame of the grill.   It had given way rather easier than he had expected.   He raised the grill back into position, scuffing the larger pieces of mortar in either direction up and down the tunnel.

'What sort of place is this?'   He asked himself, he'd never seen its like.   'Where was the light coming from?'   It came from above, that was obvious, but it didn’t look much like normal daylight it had an eerie yellow tinge to it.   He started to walk following the two figures he decided they would know where they were going; they would lead him to the exit.  

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan