Abbalar Tales ~ 28

 Abbalar Tales ~ 28 Captivity 1 

By Len Morgan

'After all this time I will finally get to meet Kaffeit and settle unfinished business from nine years ago,’ Aldor thought.     He smiled inwardly, he would also get to avenge Ghorik his old swordmaster and teacher, whose advice on combat was 'fight to win'.    He lay on a hard horsehair mattress in a detention cell at the guards’ blockhouse.   He was alone and allowed his mind to wander.

.-…-. 

He gazed deeply into two hard flinty eyes.   He was seven again and could hear the yells of encouragement from his peers.   They were baying for blood.   His, or his opponents, it didn't much matter to them.   Since receiving the challenge from Kaffeit, he had trained diligently and hard for a month.   The older boy was nine; he was not only bigger and stronger but fast and agile too.   If he was caught by Kaffeit's heavy stave he would certainly know it.   He had no illusions; boys and men had died from injuries sustained in such, so-called, friendly contests.   His opponent had weight and age advantage, he was the school bully, he delighted in calling out boys younger and weaker than himself; relentlessly humiliating them in single combat.

   They knelt facing each other, engaged in the ritual of combat, each breathing deeply and easily, one eye on games marshal Ghorik, who would signal the start of the contest, one eye on the opponent.   Ghorik glanced at Caliph Endrochine without moving his head.   Their eyes engaged.   Endrochine nodded once.   The flag dropped.

   The elder boy charged in twirling his stave about his head yelling confidently like a bear with a toothache.   The younger boy stood his ground until his opponent was almost upon him.   As the stave flew towards his head he ducked beneath it sliding between the other boy’s legs, slapping his testicles with the flat of his hand as he did so.    Momentum carried the bigger boy on a few paces before he crumpled up in a heap.   His battle roar changed to a howl of pain, as he dropped his stave, clasping his hands to his groin.

"Bastard!" he screamed in anger as uncharacteristic tears flooded his eyes.

Little Ahle loved the applause.   He paused to take a bow. Several of them, as the crowd went wild.   He should have been pressing home his advantage by beating his opponent senseless.   Instead, he had underestimated the older boys’ recuperative powers.

Kaffeit rose quickly and rushed Ahle from behind.   Only at the last moment did the cries of alarm register, warning him of imminent disaster.   He ducked instinctively a moment before the stave scythed his legs from under him.   He gazed up in surprise into those hard murderous eyes.   The lead tipped stave smashed into his solar plexus, a textbook move, his stomach was afire.   He curled instinctively into a foetal position folding his arms around his head and rolled but, a glancing blow to his throat collapsed his windpipe.   As he struggled to draw breath another solid blow hit him firmly between the eyes.   He never felt the subsequent tirade of blows and kicks that incapacitated him for three months.   For a further three, he walked with a limp, aided by crutches, at one time it was thought he would never walk again.

By the time he recovered sufficiently to return to his training Kaffeit had moved on.   He accepted a junior commission in the Border Rangers, fighting on the disputed border with Bycroft, to gain valuable combat experience.

.-…-. 

He awoke, hours before dawn.   He exercised his limbs, and when he was warm and glowing he exercised his mind.   He sat meditating while the sun came up.   He felt relaxed and eager to renew his acquaintance with Kaffeit and settle that old score, once and for all.

The tradition was for matters of honour to be settled at dawn.   So, as the sun rose he sat facing the cell door, concentrating his energy, on a single purpose.   Then, as the sun rose higher and nobody came, his impatience got the better of him.   He cast his mind about to discover what was happening.   He tried to contact Captain Vascelli but without success.   He entered the minds of a series of guards, none of whom had any knowledge of a duel, only that a murder had been committed the previous evening.

"Guard!" he shouted through the bars of his cell.   "I would speak with your captain if you please."   He called every quarter, without remit, until finally, a captain tapped impatiently on the bars.

"What is it you want!" he asked.

"I should like something to eat and drink and some news of my pending duel with Kaffeit.   I also need to speak with captain Vascelli."

"The good captain is now well on his way to the disputed territories with Bycroft.   He is apparently in disgrace for not killing you last-eve instead of wasting the headsman's time.   There is no duel planned, not for a man of foreign extraction, especially after such a heinous murder, done in this very palace.   You’re to be beheaded at sundown as prescribed by law, neither food nor water will pass your lips in this life…"

"There are witnesses who will attest that I went to the rescue of my employer who sustained an unprovoked attack from the guard who died.   My master Asba Dylon will so attest.   The man attacked me after the challenge was issued.   I avoided his attack and he fell awkwardly, his death was accidental…"

"Asba?   That puts a different complexion on things.    He was my guarantor when I enlisted in the army.   I'll see what I can find out," he said in a more sympathetic tone.   "Guard, get this man some sustenance immediately."

.-…-. 

"I insist you let me pass, I need to speak with my clerk, who is being detained wrongfully for murder.   I am Asba Dylon chief counsellor of this city."

"I know who you are sir, but this is a military matter," the sergeant began…

"I need to know what is happening to him, he saved my life!   I want answers and quickly and if I do not get them I shall convene a council meeting.   Neither the city or the Regent can survive long without funds…"

"Are you threatening the Regent of Corvalen sir?"

"Of course not, quite the contrary, I am concerned that nothing should happen to impede the flow of funds that have been promised for the upkeep and administration of this city.   Instability of any kind has a tendency to tighten purse strings."   He looked into the sergeant's uncomprehending face, "when were you last paid sergeant?"

A look of understanding transformed his face.

"I need to speak with somebody in authority who can advise me.   Captain Vascelli assured me no harm would befall that fine young man who is even now languishing in your prison.   For the sin of protecting his master against an armed brute twice his size.  He saved me from a terrible beating and, almost certain death, at the hands of that animal.   The guardsman launched a completely unprovoked attack on my person yestereve, a giant of a man.   Yes, my clerk attacked him, with words to shame him into relenting, and was in turn attacked for his troubles.   He avoided the giant's lunge and the man fell badly and broke his neck, and that was that.   The boy did not launch a single blow."

"One moment counsellor," the sergeant disappeared for a few moments, returning with a list which he consulted critically, "name of Aldor?"

"That is correct," he nodded.

"To be beheaded at sunset."

.-…-. 

For as long as he could recall his father had stood tall, flanked by his three eldest sons.   Fazeil was the elder, Jervez the soldier, Paveil the administrator and diplomat.   He was the third son.   Jervez had died the same evening their father Endrochine, returned to the wheel of life.   He recalled the pact, made between the three brothers at their father’s insistence.   So that when the inevitable happened the two younger brothers would support Fazeil who, they all agreed, should rule in their father’s stead.   Jervez was a fool, his men made a clumsy bungled attempt to assassinate Fazeil, judging by the look on his face as he was dragged away he would have made a better actor than an assassin.   Paveil had almost felt sorry for him, but he also found himself imprisoned, as a result just as a precaution.   According to Fazeil it was unavoidable; now six months had passed.  

  "My sons, your resolve is good and honourable, and in the best interest of the state; may you be granted the courage to carry it through.   I shall depart this world momentarily, knowing a blood bath has been averted; together you have the experience and strength to control the others and impose this revolutionary new regime on them all.   They will all of course be under house arrest for the duration until your affirmation a year from today.   All those, high born, and in positions of authority, are required to swear fealty to you, Fazeil.   Both your brothers will provide you with the support required to ensure a stable regime.  

 "It is important that our enemies do not perceive weakness.   Swear to this, on your honour," Endrochine commanded, producing strength from somewhere, raising his arm to be clasped firmly by each in turn.   He died shortly afterwards, peacefully, with an unaccustomed smile on his face.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan