Cheilin Saga ~ 27

Cheilin Saga ~ 27 The Parade

By Len Morgan

‘Are our agents well disposed?   He must die today, without fail, there can be no excuses, all our planning and efforts depend on it.   This is the culmination of your planning and sacrifice, we are relying on you.   His assassination will negate their primary means of defence.   The Tylywoch will become renegades & outcasts overnight.   Through you, we will control the new emperor, and the Cheilin Empire will become a satellite controlled by Blutt Central and no one will know it until it is too late.   With our combined resources we will sweep North and destroy all opposition!’   

‘Yes my master, victory is at hand, we will not fail you,’Efelel promised.

‘See that you do not!   You will not want to survive to report failure! All that has gone before would be as nothing to what I would do to you,’ warned Bedelacq.   Her throat constricted and she experienced visions of torture and pain, her own cries of anguish accompanied them.   ‘You understand don’t you, Efelel!’

‘Yes master’ she cried gasping for breath; stricken with abject misery.   Then she felt the tension relax, the mist and the green glow dissipated, she felt relieved.    He was always an overpowering drain on her energy.   Such she supposed was the way of the god, though gone now she remained aware of his continued presence like a sentinel overseeing all that she did.

She felt for the first time another was present in the room.

“You had another visit from the master,” said Mawld.

“There can be no mistakes here today, do you understand,” she lashed out with her mind, bringing beads of sweat to his brow.   ‘The invasion is upon us.   If we fail he will demand the ultimate sacrifice, and, death will be a long time coming.’

Our agents are in position, they know what is expected of them, we can only wait and see what comes to pass…”

“For all our sakes it had better be a resounding success,” she hissed.

.-…-. 

Bector lay on his cot, eyes wide open, staring into nothingness and mumbling under his breath.   His fellow quad members whispered together, out of earshot, aware his actions were not normal.   They had already sent for Tyse and awaited his arrival with concern.

“This is not the Bector we know,” he said.   “I want him locked up securely and restrained until this day is over, we cannot take the chance that he might be taken over.”   He handed over a vial of milky fluid to one of them, “He should be drugged and kept in an unconscious state.   Keep him under observation an armed guard would not be excessive but make it as painless as possible for him.

Do it now before I take my leave,” said Tyse. 

.-…-. 

“There is a problem,” she said.   “I cannot reach Bector.”

“What does that mean?” asked Mawld, “is he dead, or sick.”

“ I don’t know,” said Efelel.

“It may prove more difficult but they are still seeking the old man, which will work to our advantage, we do have other agents, but none as close to the seat of power,” said Mawld.

“How many do you have, capable of handling this?”

“Two, maybe three,” he said.

“Including yourself?” she asked.

“Four,” he said.

“I want Daidan dead,” she said, “if it means sacrificing all our agents, ourselves included, it must happen today, if you fail we will all be better off dead anyway!”

.-…-.

“What news,” asked Daidan.

“The Bluttlanders are massing on the far banks of the Staalbech River.   They are ready to embark at the news of your death,” said Aldor.

“What are their numbers,” Dan asked.

“The last estimate was 300,000 in the first wave, but there will be at least that number again ready to cross as soon as a beachhead has been established.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“There are a hundred thousand seasoned troops waiting to defend the Empire with their lives, and we have a few other surprises in store for them as soon as they are afloat, I doubt that half their force will reach our side of the river.” said Aldor.

“Then they will only have half as many again as we have?”

“There is a lot resting on your survival Dan, you cannot attend these games, your life is in very real danger…”

“Do not presume to dictate to me Aldor!   I have not missed the first day of the games in forty years, and I will not allow Bluttland to deny me one of my few remaining pleasures in life.   I will be at the opening of these games as planned.   You may as well get used to that here and now,” said Dan.

“I am not suggesting you should miss the event, rather that you should attend as somebody else.”

“Monstrous!” Dan roared with indignation.

“You hold the rank of commander in chief of the Imperial forces,” said Aldor.

“Indeed that is so,” said Dan.

“Then this is what I propose,” said Aldor…”

.-…-.

 

The royal procession started out from the palace, moving slowly down ‘E5’ the Central highway.   On either hand, the crowds waved and yelled enthusiastically as the open carriages moved slowly towards ‘C20’.   Daidan III was a popular ruler who had worked consistently and conscientiously for the good of all of the peoples of the Cheilin Empire.   The majority were aware that they prospered under his benevolent patronage.   But, a small minority thought he inhibited their progress, they decided that forty years was enough time for any ruler, it was time for a change.   As the figure in the carriage waved to acknowledge the crowds a figure lurked in the crowd with malevolent intent.   Until recently the ill-dressed figure had been administrator of grain imports.   He had enjoyed a good living charging heavy supplements to importers whilst lining his own pockets.   This had always been considered acceptable practice and encouraged by his superiors whose hands were always extended for their share of the profits.   Suddenly, they were all gone, he was alone accused of bribery and corruption, and everybody was pointing accusing fingers at him.   He was suddenly alone and held accountable for his crimes, all the others had either fled or were adjudged innocent.   Still others gave evidence against their fellows in order to save their own skins.   He was not the best, nor the worst of the bunch, but institutional corruption runs deep.   The difference was that he refused to name others, or accept a demotion, and so was stripped of his office his house, and his wealth.   His family disavowed him and he was reduced to working, in a low class tavern, for food and board.

“That bastard Daidan brought me to this sad state, now I will bring him to a worms feast!” he muttered under his breath as he took up the false cane he had been using for support; all he had retained from his former life.   Unscrewing its head he checked the dart projectile was correctly seated, in the tube, before reversing the cane and removing the iron butt spike.   What he had was a very effective blowpipe.   He waited expectantly.   As the Emperor’s carriage drew nearer, and he judged it to be in range, he raised the pipe to his lips.

.-…-.

 

Gorten wore a Bo’stad, a small crossbow, attached to his wrist with a quarrel held in place, for instant use, by a strategically placed index finger.   Strapped to his right hip three more projectiles ready for rapid use and a mini quiver strapped over his left shoulder.   He gazed down on the crowd below, then slowly he panned his eyes along the road, through the crowd back to the Emperor's carriage, then back through the crowd to his roost high above them.   He glanced across the rooftops to his opposite number, who was still scanning the side nearest to Gorten.   Suddenly he stiffened and made a crows alarm call and pointed down into the crowd on his own side of the street.

A quick glance revealed a man with a blowpipe about to be levelled in the direction of the approaching coach.   He saw the nearest of the Red Guard had received the signal and was aware of the situation.   Should he aim to disable the, would-be assassin, or would the Red Guard reach him in time, it would be a close call.   The blowpipe rose…   He took the shot.   The coaches rumbled by and he started to move on, passing the coaches as he ran on leapfrogging the other three members of his quad, placed at twenty-yard intervals.   He continued to scan the windows and crowds lining the opposite side of the road.   He looked back but was unable to see whether the man was taken for interrogation, or escaped.   Either way, he knew he had prevented the hit, and that was his job.   Gorten moved then moved again, three times, without further incident.   Then he watched a figure hefting an object preparing to throw.   Dragor glanced up at the parapet and saw the signal from a man with a distinctive face and noted it for its potential for a portrait in a quieter moment.    He was quickly beside the man, who explained he had intended on throwing his message into the emperor’s coach.   It was an honest congratulatory note thanking Daidan for making it possible for honest traders to flourish.

 

“I’ll see that the emperor gets it,” Dragor said to the man.   He glanced up to inform the man on the parapet that the potential crisis was over.   He saw a different face now, and the signal was not acknowledged.  

Dragor ran for the nearest roof access yelling instructions to his partner.

“Warn Sloan, there’s something strange happening on the roof.   Tell him I need some backup and fast…”   He headed up, two steps at a time, moving swiftly to where the man had been.   “Where is the man who was here” he demanded knowing, even as he spoke, that these men were not Tylywoch.   All eyes turned on him, “I need some information…” he said lamely, five Bo’stad were levelled at him.   He dived for the nearest man, drawing his blade, on the move.   Three quarrels hit him together, an instant after he moved, the fourth man lay beneath him unmoving.   He did not see Gorten and his quad loosed their projectiles, two of his killers fell dead, the third disappeared behind a structure.   Aldor arrived and signalled to Gorten that he was in pursuit but could use assistance.   He followed the man to the rear parapet, he turned to face Aldor.

“You,” said Aldor in surprise.

Mawld just smiled, taking advantage of the situation, he loosed his shaft.   Aldor swayed economically to his left and the quarrel passed within half an inch of his chest.

“Well, well, you are an ugly cove,” said Aldor “they said you looked like me?  Can't see it!”

Mawld re-cocked the bo’stad and reached for a quarrel.   Aldor piled into him as he slotted it.   Bo’stad and quiver fell over the side of the parapet.   Mawld was half balanced in mid-air, on the edge, fighting to retain his balance.   When he did, he kicked out viciously catching Aldor in the vitals, gaining sufficient respite to right himself and draw his sword.    Aldor ducked under a sweeping blow and drew his own blade, but was off-balance as he delivered a short slashing blow at thigh height.   Mawld partially blocked it but the three quarrels at his hip were snapped in halves, and now hampered his movements, so he ripped off what remained of the device and threw it at Aldor.   He looked closely into Mawld’s eyes but saw no fear, or expression of any kind, there.

Mawld made an exploratory stab at Aldor’s chest.   Aldor stepped around it and threw a punch hard into his opponents face.   Mawld stepped back aware of a trickle from his upper lip, he was bleeding from the nose.

 

“First blood,” said Aldor without emotion.

The reply was fast and frenzied causing Aldor to smile.

“The Emperor's cause is five pigs down, soon to be six and then, after he dies, your entire Tylywoch brood will be hunted down and slaughtered by those you protect.   Rather ironic don’t you think?”

“You are forgetting something rather important,” said Aldor.      

“But I’m sure you will enlighten me?”

Aldor easily parried an overhead cut and delivered a kick to his opponent's lead leg, “you will have to kill me first.”

“Precisely,” said Mawld.

“Your running out of time” Aldor goaded, “you have ten minutes at most then the opportunity will be gone…”

“Oh!   So you think this is our only gambit.   You’re even more gullible than we thought.”   It was Aldor’s turn to feel pressured.

“Fortunately I have an invisible helper…”

Aldor felt Efelel’s mental assault; at the same instant, his opponent renewed his attack; a perfectly coordinated effort.

He ejected her violently from his mind and instantly erected a shield about him, to prevent a repetition.   He countered forcing Mawld back against the parapet, once more.

 

“Hold fast, both of you,” a commanding voice bellowed, “Now!”

Aldor disengaged and stepped back.   Mawld lunged with a dagger catching Aldor in the right shoulder.

“Ahh!”   He yelled pulling the blade from his arm as if a firebrand had been touched to his naked flesh, he turned angrily to face the wielder of that voice.

“Sloan” said Mawld, “Thank the gods you got my message.   We have him now, red-handed; he has agents on the opposite side of the street.   Give me your bo’stad, I can pick them off from here…”

“Ho,” said Aldor, ”I would not countenance that…”

“Hold your distance both of you,” Sloan levelled his bo’stad to cover them both.   He looked at them wide-eyed, “Gods you’re as alike as two feathers on a ducks…”

“Except he is an impostor,” said Mawld.

“That will be for me to decide,” said Sloan.

“There is not much time,” said Aldor, “if time overtakes us I might be forced to act.   If you loose that shaft at me, be ready with some other means of defense.   This man is both clever and deadly.”

“Why would you be so foolish?”

“Dan’s safety must always come first,” Aldor replied.

“I am General of Internal Security!   You will obey my orders,” Mawld yelled, “shoot the impostor NOW!”

Aldor remained silent.

Sloan fired.

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 Inside Out

By Len Morgan

Inside every young girl, there’s a woman and a bride

Inside every young boy, his mother full of pride

Inside each young woman, is the power and the need

Inside every young man, is the will to succeed

Inside an adult woman, is the world in macro

And every adult man has the desire to grow

Inside the older woman, the girl she wanted to be

And inside the older man, a young boy yearns to be free!

 

Copyright Len Morgan ~ 04/2000

 The Red Mittens

By Janet Baldey 

Harry liked to walk. He liked to walk in all seasons and in all weathers but most of all, he liked to walk in winter.   During the summer there were too many people, couples, families, ramblers with hearty faces and heavy boots, all scarring the silence as they reigned in their children and yelled for their dogs. But, on crisp winter evenings he could count on having the fields to himself and tonight was no exception.  He looked upwards where the curve of the moon hung in the January sky. The silence was almost complete save for the crunch of his feet flattening frozen grass, the sound of his breath and the screech of an occasional owl.

Harry was a poet and he found that walking helped him think. During the day, his thoughts mimicked the frenzied movements of trapped animals but at night, they grew in clarity. Phrases fell into place with the regularity of a metronome as he plucked words out of the air like a magician before committing them to memory.  He no longer wrote his poems down. For many years he’d kept a

notebook full of scribbled verse but one day he’d come home from work to find his wife and daughter flicking through its pages

His daughter had looked up; her face was rosy from the fire and her eyes were alight with malice.

‘Yeh!  Dad’s a poet and don’t we know it!’  

At that moment, he understood why murders were committed. He snatched the book out of her hand and threw it into the fire. Then he left the room and stood shuddering, overwhelmed by the violence of his reaction.  

 

As Harry walked, the cold seared his lungs and he breathed out a pillar of air that rose slowly into a night sky so clear he felt he could count every far away star.  He turned his head searching for The Plough and then found the Milky Way, a shower of sparks stretching into infinity.  Suddenly his foot caught on something and he almost fell, he took a few lurching steps, pinwheeling his arms before recovering his balance.  He turned and looked back, at first, he saw nothing but the empty path gleaming in the moonlight but then leaves trembled on a bush and he retraced his steps. He lifted a low branch and peered inside. Thigh high a pale disc floated, riding the shadows. By squinting, he could just make out eyes, nose and a mouth and suddenly he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.  There was a child hiding in the bush.  For a moment he felt stunned. Then, he took a deep breath and spoke gently.

         ‘What are you doing here kid?  This time of night, you should be tucked up warm and cosy in your bed.’ 

There was no reply.

‘Come on now child.  Shall I take you home?   Where do you live?   Your parents must be that worried’.

         ‘I’m not a child.’

         The voice was soft but clear and looking closer, he realised that the figure was older than he’d thought.  A young girl, perhaps fourteen, but still too young to be out alone late at night.

         ‘What’s up lass, what are you doing here?’

         ‘I come up here to think’.

         His breath almost stopped. After all, that’s what he did.

         ‘But why this time of night.’ 

‘It’s so peaceful.’

         They were on the brow of a hill, below them the land, inhabited by an army of shadows, unfurled into the night.

         He was silent; his eyes seeing what she saw. His knees began to ache and he sat down.  After a while the girl crept out and sat beside him.

         ‘Where do you live, lass?’  

         She turned towards the small town and gestured to an area he knew well. Years ago, it had been a slum but now the tiny terraced houses cost a small fortune.

         ‘I don’t live far from there.  Come on, we can walk back together’.

         His knees popped as he rose and stretched out a hand towards her. He was relieved when she took it but immediately sucked in his breath.

         ‘Your hands are perishing.  Don’t you have any gloves?’

         She didn’t answer.

She left him just before they reached the outskirts of the town.

         ‘I go this way’, she said, taking a fork in the track. Within a few minutes she’d merged with the dark.

         From that time onwards they met often.   She was always at the same spot, sitting besides the track, staring down into the valley.    He would sit down beside her and they would chat.   He learned that her name was Mary and she liked to read.   After a while he began to look forward to seeing her.  She was very easy to talk to although she never said much, in fact she was the quietest girl he had ever known.  Once, he forgot she was there and started reciting some of his poetry.  He had likened the night to a great bird spreading its ebony wings over the land and when he came too, he found her staring at him.

         After that, they often talked about the poets. Tennyson and Keats were her favourites. She didn’t seem to know any modern work.

During the week, he often thought about her. He thought she was the daughter he’d always wanted.  He worried about her; once she’d lifted her arm and he’d seen a purple mark that he suspected was a bruise. She would tell him nothing about her background and he wondered if she was happy, surely it wasn’t normal for a young girl to spend so much time alone.  

         Once when he was wandering around the Wednesday market, he came across a stall selling woollen goods.   He remembered how icy her hands had been that freezing night and on impulse, bought a pair of red mittens as a present.  He thought afterwards that when he gave them to her, it was the only time he saw her smile.

         One evening, just as spring was melting into summer, she stopped just before they went their separate ways.    All evening he’d sensed something was wrong. She’d been even quieter than normal and had sat, her thin fingers ripping a bare circle in the grass. When they left, she had accompanied him reluctantly. Then, suddenly she grabbed his arm with fingers that bit into his flesh.   Her eyes were enormous in her pale face.

         ‘Can I come home with you?’

         Her words shocked him.   He looked down at her and imagined his wife’s reaction if he arrived home with this waif in tow.  Martha’s face would first grow slack with disbelief, then tighten as she thought the worst. Perhaps, a long time ago he had loved his wife but they’d not shared the same bed for many years.  Recently, as she sat, her legs wide open to receive that heat of the fire, he’d caught the white flash of her knickers.  Far from provoking desire, the sight had sickened him.  Even so, she was his wife and she ran the house.

         He made a brief, negative movement of his head as he stared at her.  Her pallor deepened but without a word, she turned and walked away.

         He never saw her again.  As the evenings lightened and the stars receded, he followed the same path night after night, looking for her and every failure saddened him.

         One evening with a full moon sailing overhead and the trees bowing to a silky breeze, he followed the familiar track up the hill.    Blind to the beauty of the summer evening, he became aware of a noise like the snap of a shuffled pack of cards.  There was a line of flapping yellow plastic forming a rough circle around the spot they used to meet. A man, his shape pasted against the sky stood sentry nearby.  As he grew nearer, Harry, recognised him.  It was the local bobby; he’d known him for years ever since they were boys at school.

          A sick feeling gathered in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

         ‘What’s all this then?’, he said.

         The constable stared suspiciously, then his expression lightened.

         ‘Harry! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t really say but seeing it’s you…someone’s dog dug up some bones and they reckon they’re human. Squad’s coming up tomorrow.  Till then, I’m on guard.’  

He laughed self-consciously.

         Harry’s legs shook all the way home. Something told him they were Mary’s bones. He’d known all along that it wasn’t safe for a young girl to roam around at night. He should have been firmer with her.  His hands made fists inside his pockets and he groaned.

         He barely slept that night. His body tossed and turned in its narrow bed and around about dawn, a horrifying thought crawled into his mind.  What if someone had seen him with her?   Night after night he wandered the hills alone.  He’d have no alibi and innocent people got charged with crimes all the time. Even if he wasn’t convicted, his wife would never let him hear the last of it. He felt a flare of self-disgust as he realised he’d stopped worrying about the girl.

         For weeks afterwards he lived on the edge of fear. Every time the doorbell rang his body tensed. His appetite dwindled and his cheekbones jutted. Even his daughter who rarely acknowledged his existence, noticed.

         “What’s wrong with Dad. He looks weird,” he overheard her asking his wife.

         Time passed and nothing happened. After a while the story disappeared from the papers, replaced by reports of the usual petty crimes played out against the background of a small town.  Months later, Harry plucked up enough courage to ask his constable friend about the bones and was told that the case was closed.

         “Them bones were human alright, but they were about 150 years old.”

         Harry felt weak with relief, shaking his head he thought about all the time he’d wasted worrying about nothing.  Mary was alive and well.  Probably she had found a boyfriend and had forgotten all about poetry.  Despite everything, he felt a slight frisson of jealousy.

         Gradually, Mary became a memory until one chilly morning not long after another year had started. Harry, woke, swung his legs out of bed and sat rubbing the grit out of his eyes. As his vision cleared, a splash of scarlet swam into view. His body jerked and he stared in disbelief.  Lying on the carpet just by his feet was a pair of red woollen mittens. Breaking out in gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold, he turned to the calendar for confirmation he didn’t need.  Today, was exactly a year since his last meeting with Mary.

         When the first numbing shock had worn off, he realised he had been right all along. It hadn’t been safe for Mary to wander alone at night, not even 150 years ago.

   Copyright Janet Baldey            

A Senryu Sequence

 A Senryu Sequence (no seasonal reference).

by Robert Kingston

London skyline
from a tent a man
stares into his hands

empty stomach
sharing a plight
on a distant shore

no justice
at the foreign office
an unpaid debt

lady in a lamp
no matter how hard
the rub

at home
an innocent child
with nowhere to run

Fight for Nazanin Zagari-Ratcliffe

Robert Kingston

Personal Well-Being – 16

 Personal Well-Being – 16 The Little things 

By Barefoot Medic

It isn’t surprising that we are able to describe the people we are close to, in great detail.

Parents, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, partners, children, friends can all be recognised by small physical attributes.  Their voice, their gait, hairstyle for instance, especially their mannerisms.  You can probably accurately predict how their thought processes would approach problem-solving. 

When you’re separated from a person for a period, you can recall their habits, quirks, and their methods of persuasion.  You know when they’re avoiding an issue or being frugal with the truth.  You even know when they are about to do something of which you wouldn’t approve. 

With the passage of time, you recall the texture of their skin, their little secret noises and sayings, their unique aroma, and how they would react in a given situation.  All these little things add up, and you can find yourself mentally conversing and discussing with that person; in the privacy of your own mind; at such times it seems that their physical presence is not required. 

When meeting a person after a prolonged period of absence, it can seem as if you’ve never been parted.  Often you can continue a conversation you had as if no time has elapsed. 

When they have gone, never to return, they still remain with us, frozen in time.

It’s the little things that bind us inextricably together…

 

A Picture Haiku ~ Tanka 2 

By Robert Kingston

Copyright Robert Kingston

Cheilin Saga ~ 26

 Cheilin Saga ~ 26 Hestors Passing 

By Len Morgan

Aldor entered the small room and looked down at the bundle of blankets on the floor and the pale battered-looking face, barely recognisable as Hestor.

“How is he,” Aldor asked.

The physician shook his head.   “He has been cruelly tortured; it’s just a matter of time...”

Though still fatigued from his exhaustive scan of Zofira's mind, he made an immediate decision to enter Hestor's mind. He was met by confusion and anger at this final invasion. ‘It is I, Aldor’ he said gently and respectfully ‘I know you would like my head in a basket but we have very little time.   Do you know what they plan to do?’

‘They are seeking the death of my old friend Dan.   I have refused to aid them but they are holding his son Gavein.   They intend running him like a puppet, to use him as an instrument, to bring about the demise of the Empire and the Emperor.’

‘Your mind can rest easier, on that count, Gavein is back in the palace and safe out of harm's way’ Aldor assured him.

‘You do not understand, she holds dominion over his mind and free will.'

 ‘I had suspected as much’ said Aldor, ‘is it a physical or chemical bond?’

‘It must be the latter, she only had him for a short while; they used physical means in their attempts to turn me, over a much longer period, and they were not successful.   Have a care Aldor, she is ruthless and totally lacking in humanity.   I shudder to think what harm she has done to that boy's mind…’

“We know of it and will wrestle him back from her, but at this moment our main concern is you.’

Hestor raised a grim smile, ‘No need for pretence with me Aldor, I know the truth of it, there is just so much punishment an old carcase like this can take, and this one has been pushed way beyond the brink.   You would be well advised to vacate, as soon as possible, before the spark of life extinguishes trapping you in my empty shell,’ he warned ‘the man in black has been standing patiently at your elbow these past few minutes, waiting to take me at the conclusion of our conversation.’

Aldor smiled, displaying a confidence he didn’t feel, ‘Dan knows you remained loyal; even if you had not; he said he would still double your stipend and increase your standing to induce you to return to his side.   He misses you terribly and wonders how he can go on without your wisdom and support.’

 ‘You are too kind, he will find others, less argumentative Tell him I wished him well; and will wait to serve him, to the best of my ability, in the next life.   May the wait be long…’

Aldor was forcibly ejected by the shock of his passing.  He stood shaken and unable to move, for several seconds, then he glanced towards the physician.

“He’s gone!” 

Aldor looked down at the man he had known for almost ten years, watching his still warm flesh seemingly turn to wax before his eyes.  Slowly the man exhaled, and he saw those bright intelligent eyes lose their sparkle, becoming dull and inert, his life force had departed.   He watched as the physician closed the eyelids, for the last time, placing two small coins, one on each of his lids, to keep them closed.   His eyes watered in silent absolution.   He hadn’t liked the man, discovering only at his death, the motivation for his life vindicated all his past actions.   Hestor had been a good man.   Service to Dan, his friend and Emperor, had always been uppermost in his mind; he had indeed been a selfless man.

 A full search of the building found nothing of interest confirming they did not intend to return.

 Aldor cast his mind back to Zofira who had not known of this place, because of the cell system, but he knew they would contact her soon that was not in doubt.   At this moment the needs of the empire were more immediate; the games would start today. Today an attempt would most certainly be made to end the Emperor’s life, and perhaps more than one.   He felt the weight.   The safety of the Emperor, the Empire, and the future of the Tylywoch rested heavily on his shoulders.

.-…-. 

“I’m sorry your friend is gone, but your main consideration now must be the Empire.   You must carry on in public as if nothing has happened, and do your mourning in private” said Rhynor.

“I know you are right, he would have counselled likewise, but to think I will never see or speak with him again fills me with despair,” his eyes moistened and he turned away.   Rhynor intuitively walked to the window gazing out, beyond the gardens and parkland, to the city beyond.    His eyes returned to the lake where he saw nameless faceless people roaming its banks, swimming in the warm water, and sailing boats with brightly coloured triangular sails.  

“Life goes on” said Dan finally, putting Rhynor’s thoughts into words.

“Yes,” he replied absently.

 (to be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan