"Marked By the Gods" A Myth in Eight Parts
By ThePhallocrat (email: thephallocrat@gmail.com)
PART SIX
Damek pulled the hood of his cloak down further to obscure his face as he shuffled impatiently in place. The line of refugees waiting to enter the city was not long, but moved slowly, and many were turned away. Facing a long siege, Kadnaris could not afford to take on more mouths to feed without good reason. Damek could not understand why any of the wretches in line wanted to enter the city anyway - it was like walking willingly into a death trap as far as he was concerned. But with the countryside in turmoil and armies covering the land eating everything, some of the simple folk, not knowing any better, thought they would be safer behind tall walls. As for the Prince's armies already beginning the siege, they had no reason to stop them. Let the enemy take on more wretches and burden themselves further. They were only there to prevent capable reinforcement, and clearly none of these peasants could use a sword or hold a shield.
Damek tried to swallow his contempt and blend in. It would not do to appear too capable, lest the enemy think him a spy. Gaining access to the city was a dicey prospect to begin with - even if he managed to get in, there was no knowing how he'd get out again when the siege began in earnest.
And yet, Rannell Kent and the Prince had entered Kadnaris. Of that, Damek was now certain. Picking up their trail had not been easy, but all signs pointed to the city. It made a certain amount of sense to defect to the enemy now that the Emperor's intentions had been brought to light, but Damek still had trouble believing that the Prince would so thoroughly betray his father or would join the side that was losing the war. Tytus had too much pride to so humble himself; his attachment to Kent was more intense than Damek would have thought possible. The Commander's mouth twisted into distaste as he thought of it. Had Kent obeyed the Emperor's will and resigned his position, this entire mission would be unnecessary. That the Guardian, a warrior whose reputation he had always admired, would abandon his duties out of such a childish attachment was embarrassing for the entire Empire. Sex was a distracting weakness, in Damek's view, and sex between men, which could not even produce children, was even more so. A useless vice like drinking or gambling, it was the diversion of boys that should be put aside by grown men.
And yet it seemed this vice was rampant, for directly ahead of him in the line of refugees was a man, hooded like himself, holding the hand of a boy half his age - too young to be the man's equal and yet not at all young enough to be his child. It was only after the line began to move again slowly that Damek understood that the boy was blind and that his companion was helping to guide him. The realization made Damek feel like a fool for his hasty judgement. The two began to speak to each other in low tones, but Damek stood close enough that he could still hear every word.
"I don't know about this," the older man was saying, "They are turning most people away."
"We have to get inside," the blind boy said, "I'm sure we'll figure something out."
"This is dangerous," the man mumbled, unhappily. "We're in terrible danger."
"This is a city. The priestess said we'd be protected in cities. She said Urbanus would protect us and help us."
Damek felt a chill run down his spine. That bastard of a God! Was this some kind of test? He didn't at all like the feeling of being toyed with by some higher power. He wasn't even sure he believed the God existed, which made the sensation even worse. So the boy had invoked the name of the Lawgiver for protection. What of it? It had nothing to do him. And yet it nagged him at the back of his mind all while waiting in that interminable line, and despite himself he felt a growing pity for the plight of the man and his blind companion. Slowly, a plan began to form in his tactician's brain. Perhaps the two could be as much use to him as he could to them.
So when the man and his young charge reached the gates and were questioned by the guards there, Damek stepped forward and placed his hands on the boy's soldiers.
"Greetings, captain," Damek said, in his best low-born accent, "Just a loyal old man come to fight for the true Emperor. I brought my boys with me, they're good lads and would join the cause as well."
The hooded man flinched but, to his credit, said nothing. Damek said a silent prayer of thanks for that. He had been half afraid that he'd deny the story and ruin everything.
The guard took in all three of them and sniffed. "Why should we want the help of an old farmer and his brats?"
"Oh, I'm more than just a farmer, captain. In my younger days I fought for the Emperor's father and know how to use a blade." He pushed aside his cloak to reveal his sword belted about his waist. With practised ease, he drew the weapon and demonstrated the basic forms of the Imperial training regimen, taking care to show some skill but not too much. Sweat dripped down his forehead, which Damek hoped the guard would take as a sign of weariness from the effort.
"And your boys?" the guard said, looking at the two suspiciously.
"He trained us best he could," the hooded man said suddenly, to Damek's surprise. Even more surprising, the man drew his own hidden weapon and demonstrated the same forms with more or less the same level of skill. Under the man's cloak, the Commander noted another, lighter blade for off-hand use sheathed at his side. Few men fought in that style.
"Two men who know how to use a sword could be welcome here," the guard said cautiously, "But what about the boy? Blind, isn't he?"
"I can help in other ways, and I don't eat much," the boy said eagerly, "And I'm not completely useless." With a sudden blur of motion the child revealed a dagger and, with a casual flick of his wrist, sent it spinning with deadly grace to strike the ground directly between the guard's feet.
The guard had gone pale. Wordlessly, he beckoned the three of them into the city. The hooded man retrieved the dagger and handed it back to the boy, and the three of them shuffled into the streets of Kadnaris.
"Report to the barracks for assignment!" the guard called after them, at last remembering his duty.
Just beyond the gate, the blind boy's guardian turned to Damek and extended his hand. "My thanks, old man," he said in a tone that suggested their brief partnership was over. Damek took the outstretched hand into a firm shake, and did not let go.
"Hello, Captain," Damek murmured through grit teeth. The man flinched, then pulled back his hood with a look grim purpose on his face. ________________________________________________________________________________________
There was no reason to be afraid. Calder repeated that over and over to himself, trying to believe it. His hand wouldn't leave the handle of Joren's dagger, though, where it rested tucked into his belt. He gripped it until his knuckles turned white.
The old man who had helped them enter the city had recognized Joren, that much was obvious. But Calder didn't understand why his friend had wanted to talk to the man in private. It made Calder feel like Joren didn't trust him. He always got uncomfortable when Calder asked about his past, tried to change the subject. It wasn't fun to think that Joren was hiding things from him, so Calder tried to think about something else. Joren would be back soon. They were in Kadnaris. They were close to the object of their quest. Everything would be over soon.
It was more noisy inside the city than Calder had expected. Joren said this was a busy street, with lots of people coming and going, and that Calder would be perfectly safe as long as he stayed near the crowds. There are always blind beggars in the city, Joren said, and nobody notices them. That made sense, but all the new sounds and smells, the constant passage of people having conversations or cursing at each other, everything combined to be so overwhelming that Calder felt dizzy. He wished Joren had left him someplace quieter. He wished Joren would come back!
"Hey!" a voice at his side shouted, "You can't stand here! Move along." It was a very stern-sounding woman.
"I'm waiting for somebody," Calder tried to explain.
"Wait somewhere else!"
"I'm blind!"
"So? I've lost me hearing in one ear, but you don't hear me bragging about it! Move on!"
Scared to defy her, Calder shuffled away, hands outstretched for any obstacles. He bumped into several people and got a few curses flung in his direction.
"Do you need help?" This new voice, right in his ear, sounded like another boy close to Calder's age.
Calder nodded. "I'm waiting for somebody, they will be right back."
"Right, you can't stand along here, the shopkeepers get really mad. Here, I'll lead you someplace safe. It's close by and your friend will be able to spot you."
Calder breathed a heavy sigh of relief and smiled in thanks. A small, rough hand seized his and pulled him forward. He was led into the crowd, the hand always tugging and guiding around obstacles. They walked for what seemed to Calder to be a long time, then turned around a corner.
"Are you sure he'll be able to see me?"
"No worries, it's a clear view," the other boy replied, but it wasn't very convincing.
"I want to go back," he said, "Please take me back."
"We're almost there. Don't be scared. If you're good they'll take good care of you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your friend isn't coming back. Come on! He abandoned you. I see it all the time. Good thing I found you. I can get you work. Even in times like these. Even during a siege. Here we are."
Calder's heart was really pounding now. There was much less noise in this part of the city, the noises felt distant and muted, but now that he had found quiet it scared him. Quiet meant less people around. Quiet meant nobody to see what happened to him.
"What have you got there?" asked a new voice, that of an older man, "Another one?"
"He's good-looking, don't you think? He'll do. Only he's blind," the boy holding Calder's hand said.
"Never mind about that," the man said, "There's bound to be some ugly old nobleman who likes them that way. Bring him along."
"I don't want to go. I want to go meet my friend." Calder said.
"Here now, let's not make any trouble. It will be easier for you. Don't make me get angry," the man said, coming close and grabbing a fist full of Calder's shirt. "I can be pretty nasty when I mean to be."
"Me too," Calder growled, pulling Joren's dagger from his belt and swiping at the air. He intended to lash out wildly and startle the man into letting go, but the dagger seemed to move on its own, pulling and tugging at his arm like the other boy had pulled him through the crowd. The blade went up, stopped, then lunged sideways in a precise swiping motion. Something hot sprayed across Calder's face, and the man let go and stumbled backwards, gurgling. Calder heard the boy nearby swear. There was the sound of feet shuffling, then of running away. Calder knew at once that the boy was going for more help. He flipped the dagger around until he was holding it by the blade. It was hot and wet. His hand extended naturally, flinging the weapon with gentle effort. There was a gasp, and then a thud, and then silence.
After a moment, Calder walked a few steps, knelt, and retrieved his dagger right where he knew it would be. Then it all hit him, the smell of the blood, the dripping dagger staining his hands, and he turned and ran in a panic towards the sounds of the busy street.
"Calder!" It was Joren, thank the Gods. Soon the man's arms were encircling him. "What happened to you?"
"Take me to the Dark God soon," Calder said, weeping, "Before its too late." ________________________________________________________________________________________
This Emperor looked little like his brother, Kent thought, though they were twins. Tytus' father was growing larger, his belly swelling as though each city and province he conquered were added to his girth. Perhaps that would explain why the Emperor that sat before Kent now, attempting to look regal, seemed so thin. There was little to the man but skin and bones, and his face was pale, his eyes wild. He was every bit as dangerous as his brother, perhaps even more so now that he had almost nothing left to lose. Madness had come upon him. Kent had heard the servants whispering that fact since he had arrived, but he had not needed their gossip to know the Emperor's sanity was slipping. One look at him was enough.
It had not been an easy road that brought the Guardian of the Flame into this room. When he had carried Tytus out of the camp and into the night, he did not give himself time to think where they would go. It was only later, when Kent was convinced they were not being pursued and had taken time to properly tend to his liege's wound, that he realized the city of Kadnaris was their only choice for refuge. To journey anywhere else would take time, time that the wounded prince did not have if he was to recover. And whoever had ordered the attack would still be waiting amongst Tytus' army. Kent tried not to guess who their enemy was or how they had earned his enmity; it did not take much imagination to figure that puzzle out. Kent didn't want answers. Not yet. He wanted Tytus safe.
And so he had approached the gates of Kadnaris in the dead of night and announced he carried the only son of their enemy, and the gates had opened as he knew they would. He had handed the enemy two important hostages, but they had saved Tytus's life. A fair exchange. More than fair.
"Will you not reconsider, Guardian?" the Emperor demanded impatiently. A single finger twirled his hair incessantly, a nervous twitch or a sign of his madness. "I could easily have your head, and yet instead I have made a generous offer."
"I cannot join your armies," Kent said yet again.
"Not join, man! Lead!" The Emperor stood and paced, rehearsing his arguments aloud as he had already several times. "You know the enemy's strategy. You know more of warfare than any of my remaining generals. And surely you can feel no loyalty still for my treacherous brother?"
"You cannot win, with or without my help. Your position is impossible. You may withstand him for a long time, months or years, but in the end you will fall."
"Pessimism! From a man of God? I expected better from one of your Faith, Rannell Kent."
"It is no gift of Faith to deny plain facts, Your Grace. By continuing to oppose your brother you will gain nothing and sacrifice the lives of many of your citizens. Worse, you will condemn them to the slow torture of a long siege. You must see the light, and surrender. This war must end."
"Ha!" The Emperor spat, then threw back his head and laughed so long that a chill ran up Kent's spine. "You think I can stop? You think war will be over when I am gone? Could have you spent so much time around us and still have learned nothing? We men who call ourselves Emperors. We cannot help but make war. It's bred into us. We breathe it in all our lives. We carry it around in us like a disease and we dispense it upon the world without remorse. We're madmen and murderers. My father was a murderer, and my brother, and, yes, your Prince Tytus is a killer. When he is Emperor, you will see he too will spread this plague upon the land. Emperors can do nothing less. The power of our authority destroys our family, infects us as children, makes us hate each other. We hate and we hate. We hate so much. I can never surrender, do you see? I'll fight my brother with every bit of strength I have left and when at last his soldiers beat down my door I'll die spitting in his face, fighting until my last breath."
The man was flailing about now, laughing and raging, and Kent backed away from him slowly. Servants and attendants came running, speaking in soothing tones and offering the Emperor drink, food, a chair.
"He's going bad again," one said near Kent, "Send for the musician. Hurry!" Another servant ran off.
One of the Emperor's officers came to escort Kent away, back to the the little room that, while nice enough, was nothing more than a comfortable prison.
Kent noted the Emperor was drooling slightly in his madness, the saliva frothing from his frantic motion and rantings, and the Guardian felt a little sick to his stomach. He turned away and faced his escort. "Does this happen often?"
"A few times a week, maybe more."
"He's insane. How can you follow him?"
The man regarded Kent blankly. "You heard him. All of them are insane. You follow a madman, too, Rannell Kent." ______________________________________________________________________________________
"Ammon! Ammon!" The sound of his name, his true name, shouted through the corridors of the servants' corridors always made Mouse uncomfortable. It was bad enough that he had to stay in the palace away from the brothers of the Woodsmen, bad enough that he was once again pulled into the service of an Emperor and not a free man. Not that serving this Emperor as a musician was anything like being a slave. In fact, he was treated kindly, shown gratitude, and fed well, so he knew he had no right to complain. But he didn't like to hear people shouting his birth name, people who barely even knew him, but none of them would consent to call him Mouse.
He sighed. There was only one reason the servants of the palace called his name with that kind of urgency. So when the winded messenger arrived to summon him to the Emperor's aid, Mouse already had his lute strapped to his back and was ready to go. He followed the servant at a brisk pace, knowing he was supposed to be escorted even though by now he already knew the way. Salor said that it was a very great honor to serve as a court musician, said it was pleasing to the God, but Mouse still found that hard to believe. It seemed like such a simple thing to just play some music for a while. He couldn't understand what the fuss was about, especially when the Emperor or any of the other people in the court would thank him and compliment him. It was embarrassing. After all, it was really easy to play the lute. Anybody could do it. Mouse himself had learned it in a matter of minutes. He tried to explain that to some who complimented him but they all had laughed as though he had said something very witty, which confused Mouse even more.
Still, it was nice to be useful. Mouse had wanted to play some part in helping out, and Salor had said that this would help. How, exactly, was not clear, but he trusted Salor told the truth.
When they entered the throne room, the Emperor was alone, all his guests and courtiers having been cleared in preparation for Mouse's arrival.
"The demons torment me again! Play, play on!" The Emperor said at once, when he saw Mouse.
Mouse obliged. It took a song or two, but eventually the raging energy of the mad ruler seemed to ebb as the music started to entrance and calm him. The music flew through his fingers without effort or thought now, so Mouse studied the Emperor while he played. The man had collapsed backwards onto his throne, resting his head against its broad back and closing his eyes. When relaxed, the Emperor's face bore a more striking resemblance to his nephew Tytus, which made Mouse cringe. He hated them both, yes, even this Emperor who had been kind to him, for he knew now the suffering the war had brought to so many people and knew it was because of the whims of a few, crazy men who didn't care who they hurt.
Still, Salor said there was a reason to follow this Emperor and Mouse wanted to believe him. So he just played, trying to let the soothing music that passed through him ease his own anger and hatred as it eased the madness of the great man before him.
After some time, the Emperor smiled and opened his eyes. "You have saved me yet again, my friend," he said, wiping sweat from his brow, "I felt myself quite far gone that time and was not sure I would be able to return."
Mouse nodded. He never felt he could speak to the Emperor without making a fool of himself, so he generally preferred to be silent.
"I will need you more and more in the coming days, I suspect. The final days of the war will be upon us, and they will not be easy. Still, I will find a way to make my brother pay, won't I?"
What could be said to that? Mouse nodded again and packed up his lute to go, only paying half-attention to the Emperor's muttering.
"I will hurt him. I will make him suffer despite his victory. I have his son now, oh the Gods are good. I have his son."
Mouse froze. The palace seemed to spin around him. "Prince Tytus is here?"
"Yes, he suffered a wound and fell into my hands. Isn't it wonderful? I will fall, but at least I'll take my brother's heir with me." The Emperor sat back, exhausted, looking ready for a nap.
Mouse felt his hands trembling. He stood without moving for a long time, having lost all sense of who and where he was. His heart beat like a drum, a call to war. At last, when he could stand the growing pressure no longer, he turned and left the throne room and went back to his own quarters to get his sword.