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

 

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

By Jane Scoggins

     Emma sat beside one of the huge millstones and ran her fingers through the pile of grainy flour that had escaped being swept up into the rough hessian sack.  She let it trail through her fingers like she had done a million times before since she was a child, whilst her father busied himself within the thick circular brick walls of Rayleigh windmill. She had grown up in the cottage next door, within sight and sound of the sixty-foot tower mill, with its huge, six-bladed fantail sails, that creaked and groaned when the wind blew. She had never been afraid of the eerie noise of the gigantic wooden sails. Her father had instilled in her and her brothers that the noise was good and what kept them and the community in and around Rayleigh in flour and bread.  He loved the sound of the wind, and often looked to the sky, trying to anticipate the weather and most importantly an oncoming wind. As soon as he knew that a gust was on its way he would get into position to manoeuvre the giant, unwieldy sails. They were very heavy wooden structures and although George Britton was a big and powerful man it took all his strength to reposition them. Emma and her brothers, John and Samuel, would look on in admiration as George put his back against the huge turning bar and pushed with all his might. The boys watched, learnt and waited for the day when they would be strong enough to push that bar and turn the sails. When that day came they were ready and proud to know that they had grown from boy to man. On a warm day, the miller would take the corner of his great white calico apron and wipe the sweat of the exertion from his brow. Emma had always loved her father. He was a good man. He spoke very little whilst he was working. But at the end of the day, he would brush the flour from his hands and apron and swing the young Emma, laughing and squealing, into the air, her petticoats flying and her unbraided hair swinging. Her mother, standing at their cottage door shooing out the cat or the chicken from her kitchen, would smile and shake her head in good humour and beckon them in for their dinner.

     Emma had finished her schooling by the age of fourteen and for some time had been far too big and grown-up for her father to swing her into the air. She was apprenticed to Mrs Elizabeth Stammers, the milliner. Within two years, Emma was competent to prepare and trim the hats of the local ladies, although she was not yet allowed to touch the fine hats of the gentry. That task lay in the experienced hands of Mrs Stammers, whose expertise and skill was known as far afield as Maldon and Burnham. Emma took great pride in showing off her own developing skills, by trimming her own and her mother’s bonnets with any leftover ribbons and trimmings she was allowed to keep. Her mother, a quiet and homely woman was proud of her daughter’s skill and wore her bonnet with pride to the Holy Trinity parish church service every Sunday morning.

     In 1869, just before Emma's seventeenth birthday, life for her and her family changed dramatically and sadness overshadowed her recent engagement to James Lowe. He was developing into a skilled carpenter with good prospects.  He had a kind heart and had been devoted to Emma since her father had called upon him to mend a cracked wooden joist at the mill. The job had taken several days, and he had said a shy hullo to Emma when she came to see her father, on her way home. With her father's approval, they had started walking out together and their relationship blossomed. Their planned wedding day was to be a joyous occasion, with music, dancing, ribbon trimmed bonnets for the ladies and velvet-trimmed waistcoats for the menfolk. It would be a fine celebration. They were to live with James's widowed mother, and until a baby came along, Emma would continue with her millinery work with Mrs Stammers. Emma's parents were happy for her and thought it a good match. George was ready to welcome James into his family and Emma loved them both equally.

     In the midst of all the wedding planning George Britton died suddenly, and unexpectedly. The doctor said it had been his heart. In the weeks following his death, Emma missed him terribly. Her mother, shocked and heartbroken, had needed a lot of support herself to cope with her grief. So Emma had to grieve alone. She tried to capture in her mind the many happy times of fun and laughter she had had with her father growing up in the sight, sound, and dusty grain smell of his windmill. Following his death, George's two sons set too and took over the running of the mill. They had to put into practice earlier than expected, all that they had learned and observed from their father as a  master miller. Neither had the muscle strength that George had developed over the years, but they were determined to carry on their father's work and enable their widowed mother to remain in the mill cottage for as long as possible.

     The people of Rayleigh rallied round and the coffin and burial were mainly paid for by contributions from the local farmers at Down Hall, White House, Wheatley's and Rayleigh Lodge, who had regularly brought their grain to him. Although there were three other mills in the neighbourhood, George, a popular man, had been the miller for over twenty years and the community wanted to support his sons in taking over the mill.    

     The vicar at Holy Trinity Church, the Reverend William Twyne led the service and rallied the ladies of the parish to provide refreshments. The landlords at The White Horse Half Moon and Crown, on the High St, provided the ale. Mrs Stammers the milliner lent Mrs Britton and Emma black silk bonnets with silk trim, which helped them bear their grief with style and dignity.

     Emma married James and they lived happily. Their first child was a boy, and they named him George. From an early age, Emma took him to the windmill to visit her brothers as they worked. When he was old enough they showed him how the quern stone ground the corn, how the sails turned in the wind and how the corn turned from grain into flour. Very importantly, they taught him to take care of, and respect the enormous creaking sails, and not to be afraid of the noise. They told him about his grandfather, George, and after they had brushed the flour from their hands and aprons, they took it in turns to swing the young George, laughing and squealing with delight, up into the air. Emma would look on, smiling and shaking her head in good humour and tell him it was time to go home for dinner.

     So, if you are passing Rayleigh Windmill, Press your ear to the brickwork, and if you listen hard enough, you may well hear the sound of the millstone turning, the creaking of the sails, or the sound of a child’s laughter.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE DORMOUSE 

Peter Woodgate 

Throughout the cold dark winter

The ice, the sleet and snow,

Searched endlessly for old and weak

To deal death’s body blow.

And in the fields and woodlands

Small creatures met their fate,

Apart from one small mammal

Who chose to hibernate.

His tiny feet held upward,

His head upon his chest,

The dormouse dreamt, woke up in spring

To clamber from his nest.

Why was this creature spared

From winter’s terrible slaying?

Perhaps it was just Lady Luck,

Or was he really praying?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Visions from hell

Robert Kingston

From Amiens upon the Somme

Across the land into the Salient

Our brave men toed the ebbing line.

 

Through wire and mines,

Through mud and blood,

Through many men and horses shred.

Under sun and moon,

Through wet and flake,

Little rest they won as they fought,

The testing yards and inching mile.

 

The scent of death clear in their heads,

Their nostrils burning from hell resent,

Cauterised wounds some munition singed,

A deathly end for some,

Their eyes by night a blazing fired earth,

 Of blues, Oranges, Yellows, Reds.

 

Their ears ringing whistles and drums,

A sense of looming dread

As all around the melee continued,

Death by death, Man by man, Son by son,

Precious sons many in numbers they did succumb

To the battle cry of walk not run.

 

 

 

Blood-curdling in their gas-filled lungs,

Fungi in their rotting boots,

Sweat and tears in itchy suits,

Muscles aching tendons taught,

Nerves for some as they were next

To mount and face the hidden land,

Where fate would deal its dreadful blow,

On to meet the dreaded wall of death.

 

Choice was none, no turning back,

They stood as force,

Though force would guide,

Those of fear or of wisdom stand,

Over, or rest

When shot by those on orders for descent.

                                                                            

 

© Robert Kingston       17.10.14 / 27.3.16

A walk in the woods

By Janet Baldey

I am happy, I suppose, or perhaps ‘content’ is the better word.  I have a comfortable home and enough money to meet my needs, but something is missing, and I know very well what it is.  I have no sense of belonging. I float through life without touching or being touched, so that, although it is Marcus who died, sometimes I feel I am the ghost. But, unlike Marcus, I exist and as I do not believe in the afterlife, my outlook is barren.

         All the above was the truth as I saw it yesterday, but today, something has happened that I can’t explain.  Nor do I want to, for that would destroy the kindling of hope that has fanned a spark of life in me.

This morning, I took my dog Casper for a walk in the woods.  Our routine doesn’t vary, a fact that Caspar doesn’t seem to mind.  Morning and evening, we walk down the road leading to the copse other people call a wood.   It is late autumn and for the last few weeks the weather has been foul, raining incessantly day after day, sometimes so heavily a grey sheet covers the windowpane.  Today was no exception and when I reached the wood rain was streaming off my waterproof.  Splashing through the mud, Casper bounded ahead while I followed more slowly, for fear of slipping.  The weather had silenced the birds and all I heard was the drip of raindrops falling from sodden leaves and the squelch of saturated earth.   The usual dog walkers weren’t around which didn’t surprise me.  Given the choice, I would be at home, warm and dry while the elements did their worst, but I don’t have a garden, so I had no choice.  Except one, I could cut the walk short.  This, I decided to do and called for Casper who had disappeared.  I called again but no dog.  I think I must explain at this point, that Caspar is an obedient animal, or rather he realises that a reward follows obedience, so I was surprised, but not alarmed.  He’d probably caught the smell of fox which always wipes his mind, so I continued my usual route, all the while looking out for him.   As I did, I noticed the absence of colour, the hawthorn berries, normally bright, were dulled by a film of mildew as were the hips of the wild rose while the lazy fronds of Queen Anne’s Lace had collapsed and were lying bedraggled in the mud.  All this affected my spirits, so much so that when I reached the wood’s boundary and entered an area of parkland, I was glad to be free of its oppressive atmosphere.

At almost the same time as I emerged, another figure appeared from a track on the opposite side of the park.   It seemed another walker had braved the rain.  I looked for the dog for it would be odd, not to say ominous, for anyone to be out without a pet in these conditions.  Sure enough, I saw the tip of a tail whisking thigh high just above the grass, and I relaxed.  But not for long.   They drew nearer and as my eyesight focussed, I stopped abruptly, shocked.  The tail was Casper’s.  Then following on, as sudden as a lightning strike, came another shock.  The walker was Marcus.  I was immediately sure of it.  I recognised his odd, shuffling gait, the stigmata of his disease.  I recognised his ancient green anorak that he insisted on wearing although it was both tattered and torn.  I recognised so many things that had been burned into my psyche through the years.  Yet, it couldn’t be!  I must be dreaming.  I pushed back my hood, lifted my head and felt the icy rain freeze my face.  I pulled at my hair and ground my nails into my hands and felt the pain of consciousness.  Then I looked again, and nothing had changed.  Marcus was stumbling towards me with a delighted Casper frisking about his heels.  As I stared he looked up and a thrill ran through me.  His eyes, which towards the end had been dull and listless, were bright and alive.  The eyes of a young man in an old man’s face.  His eyes as they had been when we’d first met.  He smiled, then turned and disappeared into the wood.  My heart hammering, I ran to where I’d last seen him.  As I pushed my way through the bushes, I came across a cottage.  A cottage, with roses round the door.  Our cottage!  The one we’d made our home.  As I stared, Marcus appeared at a window and beckoned for me to join him.  But, for some unknown reason, I hesitated, and immediately a look of abject disappointment clouded his face and his image started to fade, together with that of our cottage.  Immediately, I changed my mind, but it was too late and I was left behind, again.

I lick my lips, they feel cold and dry and taste of winter.   I regret many things in my life, but none more than that moment of hesitation.  Except, now I am left with a feeling of hope that won’t leave me.   For this reason, tomorrow, and the next day and the next, I will return and who knows, I might find him again.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 2

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 2 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

   Eldoriel, was a rare bloom; young, beautiful, and uninhibited.  She lived her formative years in the Northern Reaches of Bellorne: where closeness is allied to warmth and generosity; the kind that could simply be a means of conserving heat, or mayhap something more.   If, as a consequence of closeness, two people should find mutual attraction in each others company none could object; for to do so would be to go against the established Bellornian rules of etiquette.

   Her fair waist length hair was always meticulously groomed; she lavished countless hours on it.   Her slender dextrous fingers plaiting, in practised patterns, so fast they became a blur and on occasion seemed to disappear altogether.   She smiled as she gazed, into the mirror, at her own naked form.   The face unashamedly returning her gaze was delicate, but somewhat broader than those she saw from day to day.   A sharp contrast to the slim almond faces of the local Corvalen women who are universally svelte, dark-skinned, having long noses, and petite breasts.  They are shy, almost without exception, and sport lustrous straight black, shoulder-length, hair; styled to frame their wide intelligent, jewel-bright, umber eyes.

Hers were, in stark contrast, a piercing ice blue, they were staring back at her, unblinking, critical, and appraising.   However, her mind was not on the image before her.   Although, she did wish she had their smooth honey complexion instead of her own pale colouring.   She also admired the way they painted the nails, on their fingers and toes; so she began to emulate them, soon after arriving in Corvalen, with her husband, six months earlier.   The smile died on her lips as she thought of him, she became sad and melancholy, as her thoughts returned inevitably to her homeland of Bellorne.

.-…-. 

 He had been so charming, so attentive and considerate, when first they met.   He was instantly captivated by her, and wooed her persistently, refusing to take ‘No’ for an answer.   For months she resisted his advances, struggling to keep their relationship at a basic level, but he was so determined and single-minded.  At the time, she believed, she did feel genuine affection for him finding his persistence flattering, amusing even.  But, she was little more than a child and easily impressed.

"Dear Grym, why so persistent," she asked "why can we not simply enjoy the bounty the gods have bestowed upon us?   Just accept and be grateful for their generosity.   Whilst we are young and beautiful we are desired by all.   We should celebrate our good fortune by dispensing joy to all; it is the way of my people." She explained.

"But, I love you.   I love you without limits.   I can think of nothing else, awake or sleeping, you are the centre of my world.   I don't want--, cannot bear to think of you with somebody else, nor will I share; you must be mine alone.   When I see you with another I become enraged, I fear what I might do to that person, I could so easily kill or injure them because of my love for you!"   He spoke with such intensity it frightened her and she responded with a nervous laugh.

His face coloured-up, ‘with embarrassment’ she thought, but actually, it was something else.

She attempted to reason with him, genuine concern in her voice, “My love I do not understand your attitude, it makes no sense, why buy a goat when all you want is a glass of milk?"

But, he continued his relentless pursuit until finally she said "yes" simply to gain respite.   She thought his constant pressure would ease, but if anything, it increased.   He wanted to be with her all the time; he wanted to control who she saw and what she did.   He lavished expensive gifts on her, and her family, until she could not break off the relationship without alienating those closest to her.   Thus she was pressured to be more amenable and finally, she acceded to his persistent advances.   The commitment bands were publicly declared and their betrothal became official.

   From the moment they took their final joining vows, almost overnight, he changed.   Within weeks he had decided they would be moving south.   At first, she declined demurely, but her parents remonstrated with her, pointing out that it was her duty to accompany her husband wherever he went.   Finally, she acceded to the combined demands and become resigned to her fate.   Initially, she rode a'horse beside him but, as they travelled south, the weather warmed, and she began to shed her furs.  The accompanying troop of men quickly began to notice her womanly attributes, and she encouraged them by flirting outrageously, just ribald banter, to pass the time but Grym smouldered with anger and resentment.   At the next town, they visited he purchased a closed carriage and insisted she remain inside away from their prying, lascivious eyes.   He became obsessive, treating her as though she were simply one of his possessions.   He insisted she remain in their rooms, at the various Inns they visited.   She was also obliged to eat alone, in their rooms, whilst he remained below drinking and gambling into the small hours.   When finally he returned he was, like as not, inebriated and unable to exercise his joining rites.   Becoming angry he blamed her for his shortcomings in the bed-chamber.  

    She had reached her lowest ebb when a young man, delivering her evening meal, favoured her with a smile and spoke kindly to her.   She smiled back being lonely and starved of discourse.   He tarried, just to keep her company, talking of his friends and family, his hopes and dreams for the future.    Then suddenly she found herself feeling alive once more.   Whilst Grym-Baal remained below, engaged in his own pursuits, she talked eagerly with the young man; finding excuses for him to stay.   But, his prolonged absence from the eating house brought angry curses from the Inn-keep.    This did not go unnoticed by Skaa-Bae, the captain of Grym's guard, who questioned the Inn-keep.   He was a very persuasive man.   He entered their rooms without knocking; they hadn’t even locked the door, one look and a triumphant grin distorted his features.   He read the situation at a glance and made his own assumptions.  A young man and woman alone in a bed-chamber?   

"Well my little northern kitten, you have finally reverted to type."   He bellowed, glaring angrily at them both.  The young man jumped to his feet guiltily.

“Nothing happened,” he wailed.

 In contrast she reclined, defiantly on the bed, hiding nothing.

"My duty should be to inform the master of this lapse." He announced, gazing at her with intense unblinking reptilian eyes.   "Get out!" he yelled at her companion, his eyes never straying from her.   "Breath a word of this and you're dead," he whispered sibilantly, in the boy’s ear, knowing the threat would be taken as deadly serious.

The young man scurried from the room casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at the sinister bear-like Skaa.   Averting his gaze guiltily, as his eyes made fleeting contact with hers.   They filled with tears, he knew he was deserting her but, his awe of Skaa so completely overwhelmed him that he felt impotent to act.   She would however unwittingly exact a telling retribution, for after knowing her, he would inevitably compare all others and find them wanting.

  Skaa licked his lips slowly, as his robes tumbled to the floor.   His eyes did not leave her as he carefully locked the door behind him, shutting out the world.  

“Is it a Bellornian custom to ask a boy to do a man’s job?” He asked, with a boyish grin.

.-…-. 

   As her mirror came back into focus, she brushed a tear from her cheek, and her thoughts returned to the present.   She cupped her firm full breasts critically, ‘they had definitely grown in the time she had been in Corvalen.’    Since her arrival she had experienced ought of the city but the view from her carriage, on arrival, and the panorama viewed from her window.   Grym had kept her locked in these rooms, a virtual prisoner, with just a maid for company.  It was the maid’s night off.   Her heart warmed at the thought of her clandestine visitor whose imminent arrival she anticipated, with repressed excitement.   Her mood lightened appreciably.  She recalled their first meeting, on the day of her arrival.   He had come to speak with Grym, concerning irregularities in the paperwork for a cargo from Bellorne.   As he entered the room she was smitten, with desire, having eyes for him alone.   She knew, from experience, the attraction was mutual.   She smiled pulling a wrap around her shoulders, moving silently to the window to keep vigil.   He had visited her three times a week since that first meet.   There would be no small talk, they would scarcely speak at all, they shared an intense all-consuming hunger.   She didn't know or care who he might be, a minor official she’d supposed, it mattered nought, so long as they were able to quench the twin fires raging within them.

   At first, she had been angry with Grym-Baal, disappearing for days, on business trips, and leaving her locked within the walls of these rooms she now regarded as her prison.   Eventually, she looked upon his frequent absences as a blessing.   She knew he did not love her and regarded her as nothing more than property.   She caught her breath, her face flushed with excitement and trepidation, not long now, she thought.   Her eyes turned to the variegated violet canopy of the sky, fearfully, ‘mayhap he wouldn’t come?’  She thought.

There was a rattle of keys at the door to her chamber, the lock mechanism turned, and the door creaked open…

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

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