Abbalar Tales ~ 9

  Abbalar Tales ~ 9 Meyam

By Len Morgan

  They took the new road to Hartwell, a major artery of trade between the Meyam and Corvalen states.   They quizzed for news, of their young friend, from passing travellers.   They explained he had gone on ahead but, thus far, they had received no news of him, now they feared for his wellbeing.   A succession of travellers shook their heads, none had seen a youngster fitting his description.   They stopped for ale at an Inn where the Inn-keep, after learning they had come from Mandrell, suggested their friend may have taken the old road.

“It runs parallel to and merges with the new road some twenty miles further on,” he explained.

"He must have gone another way," said Skaa.   "Either to Pylodor or as the Inn-keep suggests, he took the old road.   Either way, we will not split our group further and, we will not be returning the way we came.   We will remain on this road for the rest of today and continue to make enquiries, of the travellers we meet, then after the roads merge, if there is still no trace, we will wait a few days.  If we still do not hear of him we return to Mandrell by the old road.   Are we all agreed?"  

Each gave a cursory nod without comment.  Skaa took up point, and they moved on, stopping for the night at a wayside hostel.   In the morning, whilst breaking fast, one of Skaa's men overheard a traveller newly arrived, via the old road.

"Yester-even, I stopped with an old comrade in arms who owns a farm ten or so miles back.   I'd oft promised to lodge wi him if e’er I chanced this way.   Last eve, there was a young story teller stayin, who tole the best tales I e’er heard.   A youngster in his teens, wi no more experience o'life n'a mayfly and yet, he tole tales like a vetran.   If ye close yer eyes ye was there…"

"Your pardon sir was he five-eight with black hair, slim, and riding a black stallion?"

"Can't rightly vouch fer is orse, but the rest is accrate enough.   Ye know the lad?"

"He's a comrade.   He obviously took the wrong road; we've been worried about him so you've set our minds at rest.   Tell me, did our friend leave before you?"

"Ha ha no!   Youngsters these days prefer to stay a’bed til first light, when the best part o’the day is near past.   I left two hours a’fore Sun-up, and will likely be long gone a’fore he arrives here.   Hopeflee, we'll meet again at the next waterin hole.   Tell im Neddo is lookin for'ard to hearin more o’his tales."

"We're ahead of him, so we move on and stay ahead.   We entice him into a convenient Inn.   If we push on we will have time to pay off the Inn-keep, and then take our quarry completely unawares, with minimal expenditure.   I have a little potion that should do the trick, compliments of Jazim” said Skaa.

.-…-.

Ten days he’d been on the road, and Aldor had seen no signs of pursuit. He was beginning to suspect Wizomi had an ulterior motive for getting him out of Mandrell.   He’d become more familiar with his surroundings, the land had opened out into fertile farmland and small rural communities, dotted about every five miles or so.   He'd got into the habit of stopping for a flagon, at the occasional wayside Inn, before riding on to his next destination. Thus he entered the village of Tordalle late in the afternoon, and chose a hostel bearing the sign of a wild boar; purely because it promised the first drink would be free of cost to passing travellers.   There was something familiar about the waiter who served him, but he dismissed it as of little consequence and quaffed his ale thirstily, 'that fellow definitely did look familiar' he thought taking a second pull from his foaming flagon of ale, but he was unable to concentrate, ‘he looked like…’, but he felt, of a sudden, so tired…

.-…-. 

"Cap'n, I think you'd better take a look at this," said the man who’d administered the sleeping draught to Aldor.

"Lyandra's teeth!   Heh heh, slippery little elver isn't he?   Put him in the sack and drape him over his horse, this does complicate things somewhat.   You don't say a word about this to the other's mind if you do I'll find out,” Skaa warned him, “we are the only ones who know and I won't be telling anyone."

"I'll be silent as the grave cap'n," the man assured him.

"Come on man, I'll give you a hand with him."   They hoisted the sack and the unconscious Aldor onto his saddle and tied him on securely.   "Has anybody settled with the Inn-keep?   He will need to be sweetened if we are to keep this quiet."   He received a curt nod.

"Ok then let's get out of here."

.-…-. 

Aldor awoke, bound and gagged once more.  Jostled rhythmically with the gait of his cantering horse, he groaned involuntarily, the sound was masked by the hooves of the horses.  He was suffering from a king-sized hangover despite consuming less than a third of the ale.   He eased his hands carefully around his lower body to confirm both his knife and his pouch were gone.   He attempted to peer through the coarsely woven sacking that covered his head and body down to waist level.   It was night outside, which meant he had slept the whole of the previous day and night.  he didn’t feel stiff enough for that, so assumed he had not been unconscious long.   Possibly the sleeping draught was unfamiliar to the person administering it.   Whoever was holding him obviously knew his identity.   On impulse he checked his throat, not all news was bad. The amulet Genna had given him still hung around his neck.    Obviously, they only had time for a cursory search.   He would, of course, have to continue faking unconsciousness until an escape opportunity presented itself, possibly after they stopped for the night.

His horse was reined in, "OK!   We camp here for four hours then we move on."   There were groans of protest from three mayhap four voices, his heart sank, he recognised the speaker immediately, it was Skaa.  

"Why can't we use the Inn, it was less than a mile back…" Frek appealed.

"Not with this cargo.   Were in Meyam territory, our warrant is invalid here, it may even guarantee his freedom.   Fiercely independent people are the Meyam's." Skaa said.   

He waited over an hour for the camp to settle, receiving a prod every half hour or so to ascertain that he was still sleeping.   When the fire died down, the embers retained only a faint glow and the only sound was the occasional errant knot exploding, in a shower of sparks, Aldor made his move.   He had already loosened the rope around his wrists; he had only to slice through one strand with the amulet blade.   He carefully slit the weft of the coarse sacking and stuffed it with a few rocks and a heavy blanket somebody had draped over him earlier in the evening.   He viewed his handiwork with satisfaction; it would pass all but close scrutiny.   He crawled from the clearing and circled around towards the horses.   They became skittish and nervous as he got closer and he nearly overlooked the guard, sitting on a stump close by, watching them.   After a few minutes his chin slumped down on his chest and his breathing became audible.   Aldor took no chances; he found a heavy rock and laid him out with a single blow, relieving him of his purse and his knife.   He untied all the horses and led his own away from the clearing.   As he mounted he noted, with amusement, the other horses had followed him.   He turned in the direction of Hartwell, and as he rode away heard angry shouts from the clearing.   He smiled and kicked the horse into a canter, "Let's go," he urged, "the chase is on!"

"If he isn't caught, we have endured two weeks of rough living for nothing.   Retrieve the horses and let's get after him!   You get up and earn your share of the bounty," Skaa growled at the unfortunate guard, rousting him with his boot.

   Skaa grinned, this was the part he enjoyed most of all, the chase.

 They chased hard, and they learned the lad was an excellent horseman, against all their attempts, he maintained his lead.   He kept his mount going whilst they drove theirs to the point of exhaustion without getting more than an occasional, glimpse of him in the distance; always that tantalising half mile ahead. 

 When Aldor got as close as he could ride he dismounted, allowing the horse to roam free, knowing he might never return.   The ground was uneven but he still had to walk some distance before reaching a serious gradient.   As soon as he began to climb towards the middle of the three mountains in the range, he felt a sense of fear and foreboding and began to think seriously of reasons not to continue.   Then he remembered, Wizomi had urged him to go on, and ignore the fear.   With each step his doubts grew stronger, the climb seemed more daunting, just one more step he thought, and for the first time in his life, he experienced sheer blind panic.   He turned to run and Wizomi's words repeated earnestly in his mind over and over, ‘you will feel an urge to avoid them; resist!   Just head for the highest peak.'    He stopped and took several deep breaths, he didn't like these feelings were doing to him, but he would not let them win.   He turned to face the peak once more and stepped forward determined to leave all fear behind him.

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 2 & Last

 

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 2

by Richard Banks

         The President glanced across at his wife. “So, you do remember, I can see it in your face. Now close your eyes or we’ll be stopping off at the first burger bar we come to.” She did as she was told. This she had found was the best way of managing him. It pleased him when she played along with his little games, and when he was in a good mood he was usually receptive to whatever she needed his approval for.

         A few minutes later they came to an abrupt halt in a courtyard that, on the opening of her eyes, she instantly recognised. This was not the first time she had been to The Grand since their first date but none the less the thought of being there filled her with a sense of pleasure and excitement that few other things could rival.

         The President observed her unforced smile and the animated gleam in her eyes. “Happy anniversary,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

         Although her next reaction was one of puzzlement she managed to hide it from him. Anniversary, she thought, anniversary of what? He couldn’t be meaning the anniversary of their marriage; that was months off. Her brain rapidly considered and dismissed the other possibilities until she was left with just one, their first date, but that wasn’t for another week. Had he made a mistake? Surely not. If he thought this was the anniversary of that day then it must be, but deep down she knew that it was not.

         The Manager and Chief Waiter came scurrying out to greet them. In their wake followed two liveried attendants, one of whom was directed to park the President’s car while the other stood ready to unfold a king-size umbrella in case an unexpected rain drop should fall from the cloudless sky. Their table although not in the centre of the dining room, where the most important guests were served, was none the less set-out and decorated with a style and precision that was almost an art form. The waiter presented them with their menus and, having been told by the President to fetch them a bottle of champagne departed post-haste to the bar.

         “Recognise him?” Said the President, the look on his face suggesting that this was another of his little games. His wife lowered the menu she was holding-up and peered over it at the waiter who, she decided, she had never seen before.

         “Is he a good waiter?” she asked.

         “Good at his job?” replied the President.

         “Of course.”

         “He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

         “Then of course, I wouldn’t know him. A good waiter is unobtrusive, scarcely noticed.”

         “So, you’re telling me you don’t recognise the waiter who served us on our first date?”

         “It can’t be,” she said, “he was at least a foot taller and had a full head of hair.”

         “So you did notice him!”

         “Well, I remember that. Anyway, why do you think it’s the same waiter?”

         “I don’t think, I know,” growled the President. “Had him brought out of retirement just for us.”

         “What about the Manager?”

         “What about him?”

         “Is he the same Manager as before?”

         “No, the old one died five years back.”

         “Oh well, in that case, best left where he is. I hope you didn’t try to..”

         The President suppressed a grunt of disapproval and consoled himself with a cigar which he had no sooner placed between his lips when the waiter appeared, as if from nowhere, to light it. That he managed to do so while holding above his head a silver tray containing the champagne and two crystal glasses was a feat of dexterity that the President and his wife could only admire and wonder at.

         “Tell me, Raymond,” said the President. “It is Raymond, isn’t it?”

         “As you wish, sir.”

         “Am I right in thinking that this is the very same table that the First Lady and myself sat at all those years ago?”

         “It is indeed, sir. It is a handcrafted original by Rinaldi, the elder. It is over four hundred years old and made from the finest Peruvian mahogany.”

         The President turned up the table cloth in front of him to admire Rinaldi’s work. The First Lady sensing that she was expected to do the same followed suit. It was indeed a very fine table and for a few moments, she felt a genuine pride that she and the President had played a small part in its long and distinguished history.

         The waiter asked if they wished to order now and the President replied that they would have the roast beef twice with all the trimmings and the cheeseboard to follow. The waiter poured the champagne and retreated to the kitchen.

         “I was going to order the duck,” said the First Lady, displeased but not surprised.

         “Come on, go with it. This is what we ordered all those years ago. Let’s relive the past, just like it was. Now, what about the string quartet? Recognise them?”

         “Well, they’re even older than the waiter, so I suppose it stands to reason that they were here on our first visit.”

         “You bet. Every one of them. See the old guy on the base. Had him brought over from an old folks’ home in Lichtenstein.”

         The First Lady was about to make a disparaging remark about their combined age when she realised that her husband was being romantic and had gone to considerable trouble and expense to recreate this opening scene from their life together. She decided to play along. He deserved it. How many other husbands after so long would have taken such pains. But this was also an opportunity she could exploit. When he was in a good mood there was little he would deny her, except perhaps for what she was about to ask.

         She smiled and made her eyes sparkle in the way she could when trying to engage a man’s attention. “And this was one of the tunes they played that evening. How clever of you to remember.” She was by no means sure that this was so, but given her husband’s attention to detail, she had little doubt that this would have been one of them.

         The President’s craggy features creased into a broad smile. “What an evening that was.”

         “But how disappointed you must have been when I didn’t invite you up to my apartment. Never mind. We’ll make up for it tonight. Thirty years on and even better.”

         He smiled again but inside felt a deep void of disappointment for what was not going to happen.

         “And there I was thinking I might be losing you to the Justice Minister.”

         “What Juliana! You’re kidding me.”

         “Well she is very young to be a Government Minister and you have been spending rather a lot of time with her.”

         The President frowned, unsure if his wife was being serious or frivolous. “We’ve had meetings, yes, in my office, Government business. I have to see my Ministers. Can’t do it all down   a phone.”

         “No, of course not, but no one seems to know what the business was. Could it be true what people are whispering?”

         “Whispering what?”

         “That you are about to change the Constitution so you can stand for President again. Our first three term President.”

         “Juliana has other duties to do with this damn asteroid. We weren’t talking about a third term.”

         “So, you’re keeping to our agreement?”

         “Have I ever welshed on a deal, even one that’s thirty years old and which no third party witnessed?  Of course, you’re next in line. Why do you think I had you elected to the Executive Council. It’s a done deal. Satisfied? Now, can we get back to enjoying the evening.”

         The First Lady looked suitably chastised as if the victory was his rather than hers.

         The waiter arrived with their meals and they began their delicious exploration of The Grand’s unrivalled cuisine. They had no sooner finished than the waiter reappeared to ask them if they wished to go up to the roof garden to watch the asteroid swing by on its projected course between the Earth and Moon. To mark the occasion there would be fireworks and special cocktails.

         The President replied that he was sick and tired of the asteroid and wanted nothing more to do with it. The First Lady and himself would be staying below. If asteroid watching was going to delay their dessert they would be needing two more bottles of champagne.

         The waiter departed as the other diners began to take the lift to the roof. By the time he returned with the champagne the restaurant was empty of its other diners apart from the two Government minders seated inconspicuously at an unfavoured table near the kitchen door. The waiter was about to leave them again when the President signalled him to delay.

         “Raymond, would you be so good as to pass-on my compliments, and those of the First Lady, to the Manager. When we first came to this establishment thirty years ago I thought it impossible for any restaurant to exceed the standard of excellence we enjoyed that evening. I was wrong. The Grand has risen to new heights. My congratulations to everyone responsible.” The President nodded his head in agreement with himself and grinned broadly at the waiter as though he was now an esteemed friend. “Oh, Raymond, one more thing, would you make sure that you give him that message in the next nine minutes.”

         The First Lady wondered at the significance of the nine minutes and correctly surmised that a further surprise was to follow. That it had something to do with the two bottles of champagne he had ordered was confirmed by the President taking hold of one and, without a word of explanation, taking it across to his two minders. After several minutes in which he was seen to fill their glasses and convivially slap one of them on the back he returned to his wife with the air of a man who had discharged a necessary but not unpleasant duty.

         “Is that wise?” she said in the teasing way she sometimes used when registering minor concerns. “You know they shouldn’t be drinking on duty. It could cost them their jobs.”

         “Thank you!” he said.

         “For what?” Clearly, this had nothing to do with his minders.

         “For everything. For the last thirty years, every one of them. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

         “Of course you would.”

         “No way. Now stop arguing and get drinking. This stuff costs more than most people earn in a week. In fairness to them, we shouldn’t be wasting any.”

         The First Lady replied that she had no intention of wasting it. Good champagne must be sipped and savoured.  There was no hurry, the restaurant didn’t close for at least two hours.

         The President looked at his watch and considered the luxury of two more hours. “Let’s play thirty seconds,” he said.

         “Thirty seconds?”

         “Yes, it’s a new game. You start. You tell me a joke. If you make me laugh you get a surprise and if you don’t make me laugh you still get a surprise.”

         “That sounds like a rather pointless game. Can’t I just have my surprise now?”

         “Joke first. Remember the one you told me thirty years ago? The one I didn’t get and only pretended to laugh at. Tell it again, Sam. I want to do better.”

         The First Lady, as usual, decided to play along. She was only halfway through her joke when the President laughed so loud that his minders were visibly startled.

         “I haven’t got to the punch line,” protested the First Lady.

         “You haven’t got time,” replied the President, “you really don’t have...”         

   Copyright Richard Banks

 

Old  Winters Song

By Sis Unsworth

I heard old winter’s song so clear, as autumns glow did fade,

an orchestral haunting melody, that echoed through the glade.

The falling leaves so picturesque, ignored old winters song,

but cold north wind through barren trees, seems to hum along.

As nature made its promise, to protect and try to keep,

a habitat so softly, through the winters long dark sleep.

So accept our fate, and patiently wait for time to bring,

the sound of birds, as nature wakes the symphony of spring.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 ALARMING ALTERCATIONS

Peter Woodgate 

Shall we meet,

On the corner of the street?

and will we know, even though,

our visions are blurred by heavy sleet?

For, we must make our way,

through many storms that rage,

without their need to tear the page

from the book we signed.

Must we suffer with time apart,

because of each impatient heart

and selfishness with blinded eyes,

ignoring signals, silent cries,

that each of us could only see

through inward facing lenses.

 

We could talk of early years

without the tension and the tears,

remembering aspects of love

when we just smiled and rose above

the silly arguments that grew,

boring deep into each mind,

to fester, into bitterness,

it’s then we find;

unless acknowledging our stupid pride

and senseless things that cause divide,

we may be lost;

what then, the cost?   

 

Copyright Pater Woodgate

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 1 of 2

 

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 1

by Richard Banks

The President pulled-up the blind and peered out the window at DC’s lights and the purple-pink clouds behind which the sun had just set. The City was on the move again, the ebb flow of commuters heading back to the suburbs by road and rail. Had it been an ordinary day he would have taken satisfaction from the steady movement of traffic on the arterial roads leading to the Superhub and the motorways beyond, all clearly visible from his office on the 48^th floor. But this was no ordinary day and no press notice would be issued tomorrow drawing attention to the success of Traffic Edict 204/164 in increasing inner-city speeds by 2.4 mph.

         On an ordinary day, he would not be making a target of himself by standing in a brightly lit room in full sight of anyone with a telescopic rifle. It would take a good shot to hit him but since the construction of other high rises it was now feasible, according to his Chief of Security, for a good marksman to do so with the latest weaponry. Pressed to quantify the risk the Chief conceded that the odds were low, maybe two per cent, but it was two per cent too many and that this figure would only increase with each passing year. The President should keep away from his office window and wear a bulletproof vest at all times.

         The memory of his words brought an ironic smile to the President’s face. A two per cent chance of being shot equated with a ninety-eight per cent chance of not being shot. He was an optimistic man, these were odds he liked. What was not to his liking was the zero chance of him and everyone else above ground surviving until morning.

         The approaching executioner had first been sighted by a NASA observer called Eva who invited to name the asteroid, promptly did so after herself. At first its unexpected appearance in the night sky attracted little more than academic interest, its irregular motion indicating that its normal orbit had been disrupted by an unseen collision in the asteroid belt. Despite its large dimensions, similar in size and shape to the Dover Cliffs, it seemed little threat to Earth. One more wobble would send it well clear but, when the asteroid failed to oblige, the scientists did the maths that told them that a collision with Earth was ninety-eight per cent more certain than the President being shot at his window.

         The news of impending doom was imparted to an international audience at a meeting of the ten most technologically advanced nations, convened ostensibly for the purpose of discussing climate change and its effect on the global economy. In a closed session unwitnessed and unreported by the world’s press, the President informed the minor Presidents, First Ministers and Chancellors there present of what was on its way. His scientists and military advisers, he told them, had been working on a solution for nearly three weeks and were yet to find one. The United States nuclear arsenal could shatter the asteroid into small pieces but this was only possible when it was closer to the Earth than the Moon. The Earth would still be hit and the consequences of many minor strikes would be as terminal to the human race as one large one. If a solution was to be found it could only come from his own great nation or one of those there gathered. This was a time for them to put their differences to one side and work together for the common good. While they did so, their populations and those of every other country in the world must be kept in blissful ignorance of what was happening. Public anxiety might too easily give way to public disorder. If nothing could be done it was better, kinder, to say nothing.

         Three more weeks passed without a solution being found and the asteroid was now within sight of amateur astronomers whose enthusiasm for their discovery was as yet untarnished by the knowledge that it was on a collision course with Earth. At this point Government observatories issued press notices confirming that they were fully aware of the asteroid which, they ‘confidently’ predicted, would come closer to the Planet before passing safely by.

         When all hope of avoiding a collision was gone the nations concentrated their efforts on ensuring the safety of survivor populations in underground bunkers. While only the best and most useful were to be selected the President like every other Head of State was able to add persons of his own choosing to the list of those to be saved. In this he was more stinting than other world leaders, opting to save only his two daughter’s who on the day of destruction were to be escorted by the FBI to an underground installation on the pretext that they were attending a Party rally.

         As for himself, he decided to remain. He would go down with the ship and in the company of the woman to whom he had been married for twenty-nine years. At this moment she was on her way to him at White House II. When she arrived he would go down to her car and they would drive to the place he had chosen to go.

         The President picked-up one of the telephones on his desk and spoke to his Secretary in the adjoining room telling her that once he left the office she was to go home to her family. On being told that she had no family and could not go home until Henry, the out of hours liaison officer had arrived, he issued a Presidential order that the two of them were to go to the Supreme Grill at the Ritz and have dinner there until further orders. The Secretary giggled nervously, thinking she was the butt of a joke she did not understand. The President assured her that he was being entirely serious and that refusal to comply with a Presidential Order was a disciplinary offence that would have her demoted to Paper-keeper, Second Class. He had no sooner put down the phone when his private line rang and the voice of his wife informed him that she was in the Presidential parking bay. Abandoning the many papers on his desk he bid his Secretary a pleasant evening and under the watchful eye of security staff made his way down to the ground floor where his wife was waiting.

         The President was a man of generous and sometimes unexpected impulses, so his wife was not surprised when he insisted that she drive over eighty miles from the family home in order to meet him. What he was up to she had no idea. As usual, he would enlighten her when he was good and ready, but the signs were good. The invitation to meet had come directly from himself rather than his secretary, and this encouraged her to think that something entirely agreeable to herself was about to happen.

         The elevator door opened and out he came, followed by two FBI agents whose remit that evening was to keep him safe despite his cavalier disregard of the measures considered necessary for his protection. He seemed in better spirits than of late as though the many burdens of Government had been lifted from him. She shifted over into the passenger seat so he could drive. He enjoyed driving, usually too fast along the Superhighways where he would routinely break the speed limit often leaving his minders far behind.

         “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

         “Not far,” he replied. “Close your eyes. We’ll be there in five.”

         “Close my eyes, with you at the wheel? When did I ever do that?”

         “You did once. Don’t you remember?”

        

         Indeed she did. How could she forget the young lawyer who had picked her up outside her office in a red Mercedes that he had rented for the weekend. It was their first date and she sensed, indeed it was only too obvious, that he was trying hard to impress. Normally this would be a turn-off. She liked the easy charm of men, attractive to women who were in no hurry to choose, men who had to be won over, beguiled. This man was different, not at all her type. She wondered why she had ever agreed to the date, but she had and would now have to make the best of it. At least she would get to have a decent meal, see a play, or do whatever else he had planned. But what did he have planned? It would be a surprise, he had said, and when she stepped into the Mercedes he still wasn’t letting on.

         “Close your eyes,” he had said.

         “Do what?” She retorted.

         “Trust me. If you don’t close your eyes it won’t be a surprise.”

         So she did or nearly did, peeping out from time to make sure he wasn’t getting up to any monkey business. But this, she soon realised, was not only unlikely but virtually impossible given the speed at which he was driving and the rapid manoeuvring needed to pass every car in front of him. They were on the wrong side of a main road, full of brightly lit shops and neon signs when he abruptly turned left into the courtyard of a building that few but the seriously rich ever ventured into.

         “You can open up now,” he said, and when she did the first thing she saw was the name over the door, ‘The Grand’.

         For the first time that evening, she was impressed, seriously impressed, although in truth more so by the restaurant than her escort who she now regarded with a wariness bordering on non-comprehension. How could a young lawyer living in a down-town bed-sit afford this? She spent the rest of the evening trying to find out but never did. Instead, he told her of his plan to be the best, the most successful lawyer in the Capital, and how this would be the stepping stone for his entry into politics.

         “For what party?” She had asked.

         He seemed surprised by the question and swotted it away as though it was an irrelevance; as President, he would lead not follow. Parties evolve. It would be his job to show them the way. Of course, he couldn’t do this entirely on his own, he needed help, her help. How did she feel about becoming First Lady?

         “Did that involve being elected?” she asked.

         He replied that all that was needed was for her to be the wife of the President. That done, and the nuptials could take place anytime before his inauguration, she would be the razzle-dazzle, the patron of every good cause likely to reflect favourably on his administration. They would be the dream team that sometimes connected politics with showbiz. It was a good offer he told her, not every girl got to be First Lady. She thanked him for his favourable consideration, she too had political ambitions and if she ever needed a First Man she would let him know.

         “I asked first,” he said. “Tell you what, after my second term you can have a go. Do we have a deal?”

         He did not have a deal and she kept him waiting until their fourth date before accepting the undersize ring that he somehow squeezed onto her finger and which she couldn’t have got off even if she wanted to. By then she knew him for what he was, what he claimed to be, the best young lawyer in town. As to the future, it was unlikely to be dull. She was a girl that liked to travel and this was going to be one hell of a ride.

 (to be continued)

   Copyright Richard Banks

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 8

 Abbalar Tales ~ 8 Meyam 

By Len Morgan

Six hours later, Aldor was riding in a sou-easterly direction, through the forests of Llandor.   The road was wide enough to allow three to ride abreast, or for two riders in opposition to pass without breaking stride.  The trees were gradually encroaching on the road, and the sky was almost completely hidden, by the verdant canopy, allowing only sporadic beams of light to relieve the otherwise constant gloom.   It was a secondary road, not a main road; Wizomi had chosen it specifically because it was little used.   He was therefore unlikely to be passed, or seen by over-many travellers.   There were blind turns that made speed impossible.   He, therefore, rode at an easy canter and, after a few painful clashes, he learned to keep his head low, to avoid overhanging branches, and his eyes set firmly on the road ahead.

 Wizomi had informed him, the journey would take two weeks.   He had been given a list of safe Inns and private residences where he would be welcome.

"Though you may have to sing for your supper," Wizomi had warned him.

"Huh!" Genna smirked "So you've not heard him sing yet?"

 Wizomi just smiled and handed him a letter of introduction: To Whom It May Concern…  

Genna suggested "if you're not able to reach one of those safe houses, camp some way off the road.  You won't know how close the 'dog soldiers' are to you, or even if they have passed you in the night, so be cautious and don't take any risks, I want you to return safely in one piece!"  

He smiled warmly recalling that precious memory.   She had changed a lot in the nine short weeks they had been together, then he realised, so had he.   She had metamorphosed, from a gangly, flat chested, spindly-legged girl, into a well rounded desirable and quite beautiful, 'very beautiful woman' he thought.   What is more, she knew exactly the effect she was having on the men around her and used her newfound magic to devastating effect.   She had also grown several inches taller than him in that time, 'best not be too long away’ he thought 'or she will outgrow me altogether.'    He smiled inwardly fingering a medallion, on a chain; she hung it around his neck as a parting gift before kissing him goodbye.   On later examination he found it to be a thin flat sheathed blade.

"You can use it for cutting paper, rope and string," she had told him tearfully.  

If he’d read the map correctly, there would be a small side track to his left, about a mile ahead, it should take him to the first safe house on Wizomi's list.   He had not ridden any real distance for some time and was becoming distinctly saddle sore.

.-…-. 

Aldor had left several hours before Genna took centre stage, for the first time, to tell a new story.   It was one they had all laboured to perfect.   Later, when questioned, they both maintained Aldor had returned to Pylodor that morning.   A trip he had been planning for weeks.

Wizomi was of the weirding caste, which naturally made him a good storyteller, he had no fear of the Huren singly or collectively.   He could weave spells that would entrance, enchant, confuse, or kill.   He could bind the most discriminating minds and make them totally believe in whatever he wished them to believe.  His magic was not limited to the secrets of his caste; he had the knowledge, to employ subliminal suggestion, to bind normal humans to his will.   Consequently, when the Huren left, at his instigation, they split their force.   Five were heading for Pylodor, the others for Hartwell, in the feudal Meyam states.   Before they left town, Jazim carefully scrutinised all the citizens she met in the town but found no familiar faces.

Wizomi smiled 'funny stuff magic,' he thought, 'the smaller the spell the more potent its action…'

'For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,' a voice in his mind replied, 'what news Wiz?'

'Aldor is on his way along the old road Orden.  The hounds have taken the main road with extra mounts, so it will be a close-run thing.   The boy has an excellent mind for one so young.   He is arrogant, self-centred, and his hormones still rule his mind.   In other words, he is just a normal fifteen year old but, with training, he will make an extraordinary co-ordinator.'

'Well, you have done your part Wiz, do I detect a note of affection?'

Wizomi just smiled but said nothing.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Abbalar Tales ~ 7

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 7 Mandrell

By Len Morgan

   A veiled woman, accompanied by nine mounted dog soldiers, entered the sleepy town of Mandrell at first light.   The few inhabitants abroad at that time were either on their way to or from work, all viewed the newcomers with suspicion, armed visitors invariably meant trouble.

Wizomi took in the motley band at a glance.   The men were mercenaries, but the woman was from a different mould.   Her cape was of fine black velvet, the delicate black gauze of her veil sheer silk.   Her hand made sandals were of calf leather finely jewelled and chased in gold thread, the soles showed little wear, he doubted she’d walked any distance in them.   Her nails were finely manicured and painted blood red.    The silken texture of her chocca honey skin was too perfect to be living tissue.   Finally, he looked into her wide brown eyes, which she'd expertly accentuated with a fine black kohl stick.   Her profile revealed a tantalising suggestion of her true form, as she rode past, the cape was taut at her breasts and hips accentuating the curves.   She was certainly a fine horsewoman full of poise, passion and bearing: qualities that cried out breeding; highlighting her superiority over those accompanying her.  The men were so obviously common that he wondered what their connection might be.   He would not have to wait long for an answer.   They were asking about other new arrivals over the past six to eight weeks.   At the Inns, nobody would speak openly to strangers but later would seek them out.   They were certainly free with their money making no secret of the fact they were prepared to pay well for information.   It would be just a matter of time before somebody mentioned Aldor and Genna…

His priority was to warn his friends, and that he did without further delay.   He knew he would probably be quizzed as would Genna, but he did not believe she was the object of their search.   Unlike her, he was a relatively high profile member of the community.   He would have to ensure her standing in the community was enhanced, and quickly.   He would get her to tell stories in place of Aldor, she certainly knew most of them.

 

.-…-.

 

    When Wizomi entered their quarters, he was agitated, a look of concern on his face.

"Friends, it may be of no concern, but you should know.   There are Huren horsemen, in town, enquiring after new arrivals.   Knowing the circumstances of your arrival I thought it prudent to warn you immediately."

"Thank you Wizomi, you are a true friend," Aldor began…

"Perhaps if you were to confide in me, as to the true nature of your situation, I could suggest an appropriate course of action?"

Aldor looked at Genna, she nodded assent.

"It is not a story I am particularly proud of."    He began…

 

.-…-.

 

Wizomi removed a sheaf of papers from his pouch.   "I fear we will be parting company sooner than I had hoped."   He shook his head sadly as he began to write on the first sheet.   "How much gold do you have?" he asked.

"Less what I owe to Genna?" he answered, asking her silently with his eyes.

"Around 820 Okes, I've deducted the price of a new horse," she explained with a smile.

"Take 10 with you, on your person and I will supply you with a promissory note for 500…"

"No!   Make that 100 the rest Genna will invest for me she is after all, my partner," he said.

Wizomi nodded "100 Okes payable on demand at any money lenders where the icon at the head of this promissory note is displayed."

Aldor looked at the 'Sun & two Crescents' sigil.   There was also some writing, repeated in several languages, and a set of glyphs he didn't understand.  

Wizomi explained, "It is a simple method of moving sums of money from city to city, or country to country, without actually taking it with you.   It works like this, I put up a sum say 1000 Okes, upon which a member of the 'Sun&Crescents' syndicate can draw.   In return, I can go to another city and draw on a similar sum put up by a member there.   If I have a debt to settle, I provide a note, to the person I owe it too, and they can draw on the syndicate, there is a recconing every six months.   There is , of course, a charge for drawings, currently 5% which will be…" he paused to calculate.

"5 Okes." Said Genna at once.

"But, the advantage is you do not have to carry heavy gold or risk being robbed on route.  Please sign this note immediately below my signature, the syndicate will only pay the sum to you when you sign in their presence and your signature is validated.   Here is a map," he continued, spreading it out on the table.  Head sou-east towards Hartwell, it is a walled city in the Meyam states.   There is a small mountain outcrop about two-thirds of the way, about here,” he said "you will feel an urge to avoid them, resist it and head for the tallest of the three peaks.   The Huren will almost certainly follow you, but I have a good friend who lives on the slopes of that mountain, he will aid you.  Do not be put off by his appearance…"

"Put off?"

"He is - a little different from other men, but he will be looking out for you.   He will know you are on your way and will aid in your future quest."

"My quest is as it always has been, to fulfil my birthright by becoming Caliph of Corvalen!"

"His name is Orden, he will aid you in what is to come," Wizomi repeated.

"Different?   In what way different," he asked a puzzled look on his face.

"I cannot say more, I am sworn, you will just have to trust me!   Now take the map and promissory note."

 "It is a good plan," Genna assured him.   You can move fast a'horse and light, with a small sum in your pouch.” 

Something in her voice made him stop her.  "You are coming with me of course?"  He said, gazing hopefully into her eyes, he didn't want to leave her.

She smiled wistfully, "I cannot ride a horse and so will slow you down.   You have to go partner, and I have to look after our interests here."

He looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, tears starting in the corners of his eyes.   He had only just found her - he knew if he stayed he might get himself killed but, he would almost certainly put her life in danger and that was unacceptable.

"You have to go, there is no choice."   She added, reading his mind, though it wasn't her own safety uppermost in her thoughts, as she surreptitiously wiped tears from her own eyes.  

They gazed at each other and suddenly they were close, their arms were entwined.

"I'll see you before you depart with some final details" Wizomi said tactfully withdrawing from the apartment.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright  Len Morgan