Si'Wren turned away from the sobbing mother whose daughter had been
sacrificed. The fact that she could do nothing for the poor woman left
her with a twisting feeling in her gut. As she walked away, bitter
tears stung her eyes as she began weeping hopelessly.
Si'Wren jerked suddenly as a flying pebble struck her on the cheek.
Stunned, she looked up to see a group of dirt-streaked children
gathered around. They had approached her so unexpectedly that she had
been unaware of their presence.
As they jeered and threw more pebbles and small stones at her she put
up her arms in self-defense, although a larger boy managed to cast some
larger rocks that bruised her badly when they struck her shoulders and
forearms.
When Si'Wren turned and fled, they chased her, calling vile names. They
reviled her Invisible God, crying out, "Stone the idol-breaker!" and
"Where is he?--I can't find him!", mocking her as an outcast of the
people, a scourge upon the land, and an enemy of the gods.
They followed her as she hastened to return to the cypress bungalow of
the field-hands. She continued to shield herself from the stones by
holding up her arms. At the door flap to the bungalow, she threw
herself through the barrier tarp and ducked within, gasping for breath
and weeping from her injuries as they danced without the bungalow,
chanting evil rhymes against her.
They were too afraid to enter, until the brash older boy stepped inside
with a large rock upheld to smite her with. Quick as a flash, L'acoci
seized him by the hair and knocked his own rock against his own head
with his own hand.
With a surprised scream the boy staggered and fell over backwards, then
jumped up and ran bleeding out of the bungalow, at which point the mob
of kids broke and ran. The din of their screams, added to the larger
boy's outraged squeals of terror all rapidly diminished as they fled,
scattered like a flock of magpies.
L'acoci ignored Si'Wren's weeping as she pushed into her hands a crude
clay pot of herbal tea, a bowl of paste made from honey mixed with lard
and clay and crumbled leaves and flowers, and a coarse, dirty,
wadded-up old rag.
"Ah!" she exclaimed wordlessly, and blanched at her imagined 'error'.
L'acoci looked long and meaningfully at Si'Wren, but said nothing and
turned away finally without comment.
Feeling guilty about the monosyllabic utterance, although she had not
truly spoken any word, Si'Wren, trembling in fear, stepped over to
kneel carefully beside a stoically suffering Habrunt, her own concerns
temporarily overlooked. Head still reeling from the blows, she forgot
her bruises as she flinched at the renewed sight of his terrible
injuries.
She changed the bandages polluted by the stink of corruption, and
soothed on the paste L'acoci had made, before gently applying the
layers of fresh tea-soaked replacement gauze over Habrunt's ruined
flesh, exercising special care over the most fearsome gashes. Habrunt
trembled in agony at this, but when he realized who she was, he somehow
managed to hold still for it, although with much difficulty.
As she worked on Habrunt's terrible wounds, Si'Wren thought with great
trepidation about possibly having violated her oath of silence again,
but could not help wondering if she actually had or not. Of a truth,
she had sworn never to actually speak again, but now it occurred to her
that perhaps she might at least intonate. The idea was such as to be
normally of no great import, but now seemed so great a revelation that
she felt a sense of surprise out of all proportion. The simple fact
was, she realized, that one did not need mere words to express one's
feelings.
Si'Wren reflected upon this at length, and considered that although she
might never again know the joy of singing, she could still hum her
favorite melodies, and imagine the words in her mind or merely close
her eyes and sway gently to the rhythm.
The thought of this seemed like a great consolation to her.
She began humming softly as she worked gently on Habrunt's wounds,
filling the silent, deserted bungalow with the quiet, lovely mood of
her melody.
Habrunt sighed, and seemed to relax a little. She noticed this, and
felt that he was more than a little eased in his sufferings. So she
continued humming, ever so softly.
Presently others began to arrive, a few at a time, all of them female
slaves or their children.
With L'acoci hovering over the stew, no one dared bother Si'Wren,
kneeling so close nearby.
The ravaged figure of brave Habrunt convalescing on the sleeping rack,
fallen from favor, gave them equal pause. Until the day he died,
Habrunt would never be the kind of man whom others might dare to mock
openly or deal so lightly with.
But Si'Wren hummed more softly anyways, and more quietly, that others
might not overhear so readily, to avoid giving them sufficient reason
to take open notice of it and perhaps voice false objections out of a
spirit of trouble-making. Presently, the others began murmuring amongst
themselves over the anticipated victory, and Habrunt and his young
nursemaid were ignored and forgotten.
Presently, L'acoci dipped up some stew into a clay bowl and gave it to
Si'Wren.
"You must feed him as well as yourself," said L'acoci, as she noticed
Si'Wren holding the one bowl in puzzlement.
Si'Wren had clearly expected two bowls, one for herself and another for
Habrunt. Hesitantly at first, she began alternating a portion for
herself and another for Habrunt, using sea shells for scoops. Habrunt
could not bear to move his tortured body, not so much as to lift a
finger, but Si'Wren was more than willing to make up for this by
helping him. Occasionally, she lifted a cup of water to his lips, and
resorted to wiping his beard with the dampened hem of her skirt.
But then, noticing his worsening condition, she took up a rag and
dipped it in tea and pressed it to his feverish brow to try to ease the
torment that visibly shook his trembling, half-naked body with
increasing vehemence.
Slowly, as Si'Wren endured the passing of the hours thus, evening fell
and twilight was transformed into the blackness of night and the
flicker of the cooking fire in it's cobblestone pit in the cypress
bungalow of the field slaves. A mist began to rise from the land,
covering all with it's creeping white vapors, obscuring everything
under a drifting, gauzy white veil of dimly-cast moonglow.
"Si'Wren," whispered L'acoci, leaning close so that others in the
bungalow might not overhear, "I would have a word with you."
Si'Wren beheld the old woman, and waited respectfully.
"Si'Wren," repeated L'acoci, her voice as whisper-dry as a pile of
dried leaves as she bent close to Si'Wren's head and Si'Wren sensed the
parched lips hovering close to her ear, "I have heard the stories of
old, told of moon-madness, shared in the bungalows in times past. I saw
when you yourself, as a tiny orphan girl new to the House of the
Master, were told such horrible stories by the fireside when the slaves
hid in fear of the full moon shining in the blackness of night, with
tales told about how the moon drives men, and women, and even little
children, to madness. And I see you now, watching over your brave
Habrunt, as he lies in the delirium of pain and fever and torments upon
his cot. Are you wondering if Habrunt might be in danger of the
moon-madness?"
Si'Wren considered this momentarily, and then she shook her head,
signaling her answer in the negative. Yes, she believed in
moon-madness, but never had she questioned the power of Habrunt's
might. She did not believe that a mighty and valiant one such as he
would or could ever go moon-mad.
"Good," whispered L'acoci. "Hear me, girl, and mark me no fool. There
is no such thing as moon-madness. During the full moon, demons stalk
the land, seeking to afflict weakened minds, that people might blame
the moon, and call those so afflicted moon-mad, and thereby curse God's
creation which He hath called good. For this reason, yes, we must
beware the coming of the full moon, but not for it's own sake, but for
the madness and evil deception worked by unseen demonic powers, seeking
to deceive us mere mortals into thinking that it comes from the full
moon. But the full moon itself is nothing to worry about. Know this,
girl, and know it well. Behind every evil act of man is the still more
evil provocation of a horde of demonic and deceiving fallen powers,
for the unseen demons ever lurk, and ever shall until the very end of
time itself, seeking the souls of every man, woman, and child upon the
face of this accursed soil we walk upon, and the demons are very real,
and they are organized into an entire fallen kingdom of the damned, an
army of intelligent evil spirits, dedicated to the overthrow of the
Invisible God Himself."
Si'Wren considered this, as she regarded Habrunt, and nodded that she
understood.
Then L'acoci added, still whispering so faintly that it was as if
Si'Wren's own inner consciousness had formed the words, "Si'Wren, far
from the demons driving Habrunt mad, he drives them mad. They hate him
for his righteousness and goodness."
Then L'acoci was turning away, and Si'Wren realized that the
conversation was over, and rejoiced that she had learned this new thing
about demons. Now, they could no longer deceive her as before. She
would never again fear the full moon, but only be on guard, in prayer,
against the evil demons.
Sometime around midnight, Habrunt began to grow delirious from the
fever, and she fell into a kind of stupor, sitting on a woven mat and
leaning against his sleeping rack with her head leaning close to his,
while the bare skin of her face and exposed extremities basked in the
fireside glow.
Habrunt began to moan in his sleep from his intense sufferings, and
Si'Wren began to hum a melody, so low and muted as to be inaudible to
all but herself and Habrunt, and after a short time he stopped his
pitiable lamentations for a little while.
In an exhausted somnambulance, Si'Wren lapsed into her slumbers as
well, until his groanings woke her once more. Then she patted his
forehead with the tea-soaked rag, and from her heart and soul arose in
her throat soft compassionate intonations, so low that only his ears
could hear her as she leaned close, hovering over him with tender eyes
and a softened look.
Something seemed to be bothering Habrunt in his sleep as he murmured to
himself unintelligibly, but although Si'Wren tried her utmost she could
not seem to make it out.
In the delirium of a feverish dream, Habrunt heard a voice calling
sweetly in the jungle. It was the voice of some incomprehensible
vision, a beauty, a paragon of virtue, a woman like unto no other such
as he had ever seen in all of his unfathomable years.
He searched for her, sometimes walking, sometimes running a few steps,
expecting any moment to break through the dense foliage of the lush
greenery and glimpse the unearthly vision of her eternal spirit,
ecstatically alive, wild, and free, as the mysterious woman with a
voice like an angel roamed the deep jungle, seemingly heedless of it's
wild beasts and other horrors, entirely unharmed, and moreover,
unaffected, as if it were her rightful kingdom and the savage beasts
her royal subjects.
But every time he managed to brush the vines and fern fronds aside with
a burly arm to reveal what was beyond with a sweep of his haunted eyes,
he saw only a little brown wren bird, singing from a branch across the
little thicket-like clearing.
He turned away, and again he heard her, like the calling of a siren,
causing the steaming jungle to throb and tremble invisibly with the
incredible sweetness and beauty of that trilling, passionately
enthralling voice, piercing his soul like a javelin tipped at the point
with the sap of some unknown, virulent love concoction.
Madly, he spun around and charged through the vines, their ropes and
boughs whipping at his skin as he ignored the pain, calling desperately
and chasing with hastened steps towards her swiftly moving shadow which
could barely be glimpsed ahead, highlighted against the glimmerings of
sunlight that sparkled like the beams of coruscating, living jewels
before his eyes.
There she was! All sparkling bright shimmerings of brilliant golden
yellow sunlight flashes. Through the mottled and rippled interplay of
light and shadow patterns, he saw her silhouette against the sun, a
living vision come to life amidst the dank dark kaleidoscope of jungle,
blinding his eyes with her beauty!
He crashed wildly through, stopped to rub his eyes, and looked again,
and, disappointed, saw yet again the plain little brown wren bird,
there!, on a branch, so small, so insignificant, singing sweetly.
Where! Where was the woman who called to him?!!
He looked around, and staggered off, heartbroken and despairing.
Where was she?
He heard her again, far off, singing, calling like an eternal, winged
Holy Angel of the Invisible God, and as he turned to go to her he felt
his limbs whipped by the passing branches and weighing like lead, and
he slowed helplessly, becoming tired, so deathly tired.
The siren, he thought feverishly, as he staggered and fell headlong,
unable to catch himself.
Where was the siren?!!
"Si'Wren," remanded wise old L'acoci in a hushed and quavering crone's
voice as dry as dead leaves. "Si'Wren! Come to sleep now. Your brave
Slavemaster will live."
As she ceased her crooning, Si'Wren looked up at the withered
countenance of old L'acoci by the light of the cooking fire coals with
a tired, dreamy stare, and sighed in a heedless shrug. Then she turned
her eyes softly back again, looking compassionately down upon her
precious Habrunt, who had finally stopped his thrashing, and fallen
into a deep slumber again.
Ageless Habrunt as half a man was yet even now all the more to her in
his ruin, than any ten ordinary men in their youth and prime could
possibly have boasted.
Si'Wren hummed softly to him, as he began his moaning and thrashing
again, and she wondered what chaotic dreams passed through his sleeping
mind.
So the long night passed.
* * *
The sweat-covered, dirt-streaked slave runner came at a quick jog
through the compound front gates and sought first after the whereabouts
of Slavemaster Habrunt.
He did not know yet that Habrunt, the former Slavemaster of the House
of Rababull, had so recently been deposed and punished. He did not know
that Habrunt was slated to be sold for next to nothing, as soon as his
wounds were healed. The messenger would speak to no one else at first,
and the others were too frightened by the former Slavemaster Habrunt's
terrifying fate to even so much as speak of him to the runner.
Not finding Habrunt, the runner ran straight up the front steps into
the House, where Old Maskron quickly sprang to his feet and raised his
bronze sword in a challenge to yield and declare himself.
The gasping runner took in Old Maskron with a wild-eyed stare, and
finally decided he could withhold his dire news no longer.
"Master Rababull is dead!" declared the breathless slave.
"Whaaaat?!" croaked Old Maskron, his eyes going senselessly round and
wide.
The clatter of the sword rang loud on the stone steps, as Old Maskron
reached out with both hands to seize the runner's tunic by the front to
confront him bodily face-to-face and shook him as he howled, "You
lie!!!"
"It is no lie!" the runner sobbed in a broken utterance. Then he went
on, "Kadrug--giants!--they fell on us from all sides!"
He stopped suddenly, his lungs gasping audibly for air as he stood
sniggering like a whipped boy in a torment of anguish, fear, and
remorse at what he had seen.
"Master Rababull," he moaned, "and all--of the rest of us..."
He fell silent, staring into emptiness as if at the terrifying aspect
of unseen demons.
"Talk!" demanded Old Maskron finally, shaking the other again and
infuriated at the runner's balking manner.
"A trap!!" the slave wailed. "They are all--g-gug--dead!!
Maskron!--what shall we do for I alone have escaped to tell you?!"
"Do?" croaked his interrogator. Old Maskron shook the weeping runner as
he gripped him, staring him down for a long moment while his eyes took
on a maddened look.
"Do?! You tell me this, and dare to ask of me, 'What shall we do?!'"
He shook the hapless runner again, a human god damning the dishonored
vessel of calamitous news to all the imaginary hells of the soul, and
violently cast him backwards as if the man had himself brought this
dire fate upon the House of Rababull.
The runner fell backwards and hit the hard, hewn stones of the stairs
full stretch against the back of his head, and lay sprawled backwards,
head-downwards and facing sightlessly into the heavens on the
unforgiving stone steps.
* * *
The fields stood empty. No slaves worked their softly undulating waves
of ripening grain.
The water in the irrigation canals was already low and getting lower,
the water ways steadily dropping down to unprecedented levels. The
silent compound stood with it's great gates closed tight shut and
cross-barred through the heavy iron rungs. No confident soldiery
patrolled it's upper walkways. They were all dead.
At the top of the front steps of the House proper, no great Master
stood confidently facing the world on it's own terms as a favorite of
the gods.
Master Rababull was dead.
Prut was dead. Geth the Fieldmaster was dead. All of their able-bodied
male slaves were dead, their blood spilled in the fields surrounding
the hotly contested sluice gates.
It was not a pretty sight, with the vultures already at work on what
the corpse-strippers and ritual mutilators had left.
The compound was filled with quiet groups of motionless women,
solemn-faced and terror-stricken. Their children clustered anxiously
around them, some quiet, some crying, but none laughing. The few
innocent toddlers who occasionally frolicked were quickly spanked into
confounded wailing obedience, if not outright silence.
In the long and seemingly vacant cypress bungalow of the field slaves,
one sang wordlessly, and almost inaudibly.
Close beside the cooking fire, Si'Wren, forbidden to form words, hummed
and sang in sweet soft crooning sounds.
Keeping her voice low, she sat tirelessly beside the sleeping rack
where Habrunt lay prostrate, hovering attentively over his tormented
form and watching over him with tender devotion.
The others, preoccupied with vastly more important concerns now, could
not be bothered to deal with Si'Wren anymore for her imagined
blasphemies.
As one made ritually invisible, as well as silent, and an outcast for
life, Si'Wren was lost in a world of her own. Clearly, she had eyes for
no one but Habrunt. She saw nothing besides this mighty man who, laid
low, remained on the rack and languished perpetually before her.
They had done this to him, and behold; they were now dead whereas he,
Habrunt, still lived.
* * *
The compound's front gates boomed loudly as someone pounded at the
door. In the drifting predawn mists of the interior yard, people
cowered and watched from their doorways, peering fearfully across the
compound, waiting for Old Maskron to go answer or at least send someone
to see who it was.
Old Maskron finally came out to peer through the gray-white veil of
dense fog with eyes reddened and pouched from lack of sleep and too
many years of heavy drink and overmuch worry, his face a scowling mask.
At the side of Old Maskron, a nervous-looking, handsome young boy of
perhaps ten appeared next, dressed in rich robes, his hair polled oddly
in a manner which bespoke his noble birth.
Old Maskron clapped the boy on the back.
"Go! See!" Old Maskron growled the terse command.
The boy ran and climbed up the diagonal brace of one of the gates to
peer out of a peephole. He was seen talking momentarily, then turned
and ran back across the courtyard and up the House front steps.
"They are blood kin of the House of Rababull!" he proclaimed excitedly
to Old Maskron.
"What? Impossible!" Old Maskron brandished his bronze sword as he made
his arthritic way down the front steps.
With the keyed-up little Master at his side, white-haired Old Maskron
wobbled and wheezed his way across the courtyard, his sandals scraping
audibly in the dust of the dirt, while fearful eyes watched his slow
progress to the gates from their ill-concealment on all quarters.
He arrived at the gates and peered out of the peephole.
Long seconds went past as he stood and talked with whoever was outside.
He nodded occasionally several times, pausing to listen now and again,
his hand idly fiddling with the sword.
Finally, he nodded approval as he turned and ordered several crippled
slaves to open the gates. Limping, they reached for the cross bar. With
a mighty heave, the heavy oaken cross bar slid sideways out of the iron
rungs and into the receiver off to one side.
Old Maskron stepped back and self-importantly ordered them to open the
gates with a show of bluster. With a series of ineffectual lurches, the
crippled slaves put their backs into it, and slowly the big gates began
to creak open.
Suddenly a spear lanced through the air, flying through the space
between the opening gate doors, and struck Old Maskron in the chest,
it's iron point erupting in a welt of red from the backside of his
spine as he collapsed with a single amazed croak of disbelief, dead
before he struck the dirt.
In sheer terror, the boy screamed and turned to run. Halfway across the
courtyard, he was struck down by a flight of arrows that zinged through
the air and thunked sickeningly into his body and became inextricably
embedded in his back, which he arched agonizingly even as he tumbled
forward to hit the ground with an awful, nerveless slap and slid a
half-step in the dust.
At this, the terrified shriekings and screamings of the women and other
children suddenly filled the compound's surrounding buildings.
As the war party entered, their men marched quickly past the boy's
crumpled figure. A huge half-breed giant fully seven feet tall thrust
him through with a spear point and casually levered the honed steel
blade out of the boy's body again as he marched past without even so
much as breaking his stride.
They broke into all buildings and searched for any males of noble
birth. There were none such, of course, except in the House proper.
These they brought out kicking and screaming, one by one, to the top of
the front steps.
They were immediately confronted by a tall, fearsome-looking man who
appeared to be the leader of the invaders and summarily thrust through
with the sword and their lifeless bodies cast down the stone steps.
The more the dead were piled up, the more terrified the living became
as they were dragged to the fore and arrived at the stark sight of the
growing pile of bodies.
None were of fighting quality. Either too old or too young, they were
nonetheless potential claimants or heirs to the Deed of the House of
Rababull, and systematically eliminated.
The killing process only stopped when the executioners finally ran out
of heirs.
Then, the final prize, virile young Puffat was dragged out between two
bedraggled but powerful-looking swordsmen, his gangrenous leg causing
him much agony, making pathetic attempts to free himself and loudly
protesting his innocence to whatever gods there be.
The snaggle-toothed, smiling executioner listened to him a moment, and
then, still smiling, thrust him through with a sword and stepped back,
jerking his weapon out of the victim as his body was released by his
captors to plummet lifelessly down the blood-spattered steps where it
eventually came to rest at the top of the heap of other victims.
There, others with spears were systematically thrusting through any who
showed any signs of remaining life.
Technically, the invaders were no longer blood-kin to their victims,
because they had murdered them all. This marvelous bit of genius had
also portended a direct line of succession that now led straight to
their leader, Conabar.
Now Conabar was chiefest blood-heir.
That was the object, that their leader might remain sole heir and
possessor of the Deed to the House of Rababull and all of it's holdings
and slaves.
He might even move a marker stone or two and get a jump start on his
new neighbors. Let them complain if they dared.
Conabar, a distant relation of Master Rababull, had sent word that he
would come when called to battle against the common foe, but craftily
delayed his coming and stayed home instead. Then he had sent out his
scouts, and made his long-awaited move when opportunity presented
itself upon the Master Rababull's untimely death. The power play was
finally working out, because of his iron patience and the fickle turn
of events.
In past times, it had been with much weariness and not a little
conniving that Conabar had played up to the endless demands of Master
Rababull's contemptuously-worded family obligations, while he had
watched and learned and waited for over four hundred years for this
singular opportunity to finally present itself.
Kadrug was still in possession of the sluice gates, but what was that
to Conabar? He had his own House, and his own fields, to which might be
added the holdings of Master Rababull. What could Kadrug do to him?
Kadrug's men were spent, whereas Conabar's men were fresh and spoiling
for the battle! All he needed to do now was to fight off Kadrug, or
better yet, try to make an ally of him. Kadrug, with only the fields to
bivouac his fighting forces, could not hold out forever against an
entrenched, battle-hardened evil-doer like Conabar, who had the staying
power of his riches to bribe others, and such vast holdings to sustain
himself and his warriors.
"Long live Conabar!" yelled his men, the noise of their hollering and
hooting voices deafening in the confines of the stockade.
Yea, thought Conabar to himself while his men cheered on, long live my
ways and my word. Much blood must be spilled this day. But he knew he
would live only so long as he kept his back to the wall and his wits
about him, and his men remained loyal to him in his occasional absence
and his nightly sleep. He would live as long as another like himself
did not take similar advantage of him, as he had done to the former
Master Rababull.
There was a sudden outcry of several of his men at the back gates. One
of them came running and knelt before him on one knee to report that
Rababull's many widows had escaped and were even now fleeing into the
nearby city.
He scowled. They were to have been for him and his men, but now they
might bring trouble instead. Too late now. The Emperor of the city
would be too powerful to attack just to get back a few women, any of
whom might easily be old enough to be his mother several times over.
With vile oaths and many despicable and filthy curses, and much
spitting in the dirt, Conabar ordered the enslavement of all remaining
women who were of noble birth and no longer virgin.
As for those women who were freeborn and had not yet known any man,
they must be sorted through. The best would be his to keep or to sell
off. His men could squabble over the rest.
There was even a tale told of a certain beautiful young slave girl who
was an outcast even among her own kind, a redoubtable beauty whose
flower of womanhood had only just begun to bud. A woman sworn never to
speak for the remainder of her life. As soon as he could find the
proper time to investigate this ridiculous old wives' tale, Conabar
intended to go and find her.
A woman who was sworn never to talk back to any man, and was allegedly
of such incomparable beauty; now there was a rare prize! As for the
rumor of idol-breaking, that was a quandary to think about.
But for some reason, they were having trouble locating her.
In the meantime, the men must be given free rein to make merry, lest
they riot.
"Red wine!" Conabar called out. "I want the best!"
A warrior clapped his chest and went out to go slap a few slaves
around, abusively demanding where the wine vats were, and the women
readily granted him his every wish as they pleaded tearfully for their
lives and the lives of their children.
The wine was quickly located, and Conabar savored his moment of victory
as he thrust skyward the golden goblet of sparkling red wine, the very
scent of which, penetrating and ethereal, made his head giddy with
newfound power and glory.
Sloshing it's contents in a reckless gesture, Conabar waved his sword
in the air and shouted, "Rababull be dead! Long live Conabar House!!"
"WHOO-RAH! WHOO-RAH!" shouted his men, crowding around on all sides as
they routed the wine bearer for his plunder and brandished their
weapons, toasting Conabar in a crash of armor.
The raucous cheering and noise-making grew to a deafening din in the
compound.
* * *
Somewhere past the bungalow of the field slaves, beyond the back gate
that let out into the fields behind the compound of the once and mighty
House of Rababull who was no more, and yet beyond, out in the tall saw
grasses and swaying bulrushes beside a peacefully meandering little
stream, Si'Wren crouched low beside a collapsed Habrunt as she listened
fearfully. In the distance, the madmen howled their anger and
frustration at not finding her, and their mounting desperation at what
Conabar would do to them for their failure to deliver one called
Si'Wren into the hand of their master was driving them to extremes.
They had already run old L'acoci through with a sword, for refusing to
tell which way Si'Wren had gone.
Bent over in agony and unable to defend her now, the savagery of his
punishments making him the very image of evil and degradation, a
crippled Habrunt had counseled Si'Wren to flee, and against his
protests found himself dragged along rather than be abandoned to the
invaders. He had known what to do, but it was she who had actually
accomplished their escape so narrowly in time.
Beside him, a heavily gasping Si'Wren felt deep fear. The way that the
men who came searching had looked for Si'Wren, describing her so
accurately, and the way her fellow slaves had named her so freely as
she listened in the bushes nearby, had chilled her blood.
While the searchers ran off to look elsewhere, she had helped a
crippled Habrunt to escape, fearful of being spotted at any moment. It
was a relief to rest now, as she and Habrunt cowered together in the
bulrushes by the stream.
Then, Habrunt said under his breath, as much an agonized groan as any
recognizably human utterance, "The Emperor's Law is broken. If
judgements are to be determined, we must go to the Emperor!"
He levered himself laboriously to his feet, and Si'Wren ducked under
his shoulder to prop him up. As he indicated the direction of their
flight, she helped him to get on his way with surprising strength for a
girl her size.
Si'Wren refused to give up so easily. Yea, she only feared the others,
but reverenced Habrunt, and whither he led she would surely follow.
* * *
"All bow!"
There was a general sound of the physical movements of many attendants
and lawful petitioners as the masses bowed low to virtually scrape the
floor with their noses. In addition to the Court Officers representing
various royal functions, the riff-raff of the spectators' galleries
looked on in gleeful anticipation, as sometimes the judgements could be
quite severe.
Under the watchful eyes of the Palace Guard with their weapons at the
ready, his Royal Majesty, singular ruler of the fertile gulf plain and
self-proclaimed Anointed of the Gods, his Highness the Emperor
Euphrates, father of many noble offspring and husband of countless
wives, entered at a sedate pace accompanied by various officials and
took with unfeigned boredom to the throne, his back against the stone
wall and a pageant of armed guards in watchful attendance on either
side. He was huge and gross of body, fleshy of face, hair and beard
molded into one mass of shining streaming black all streaked with gray. To
look up at him from the floor at a time like this was to die.
The proper doctrinal announcements were made by the Royal Crier, a tall
thin reedy-looking fellow who could by now have pronounced them in his
sleep without interrupting his own dreaming, and the great and terrible
Emperor Euphrates was duly installed for the day.
The Public Hearings came first, during which he lounged on his amply
padded stone throne and ate purple plums -a favorite delicacy; and gods
have mercy upon the slave who dropped and stepped on so much as a
single plum in the act of serving them- as he sat in state and heard
out the wearisome, endless complaints of his subjects.
'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth' was the customary rule, but
men of means could get out of that if enough money was paid to satisfy
their legal indebtedness to the Kingdom for whatever offenses.
One pair of contestants were given swords and, under the watchful eyes
and ready lances of the Palace Guards, invited to fight it out on the
spot in a bloody battle. In the end, both died of their wounds and
their survivors fled the palace to grab what they could before the
sacred arm of the Emperor's covetous priesthood could contrive a
sufficient excuse to come and take all.
* * *
By and large, Emperor Euphrates got around to hearing about the death
of Master Rababull, and of the pleas for sanctuary by his many wailing
widows and concubines.
According to their general testimony, it seemed that things had been
happening at a drastically accelerated pace recently with respect to
the affairs of the late Master Rababull, and it was not at all to their
liking, these widows of Rababull's.
One named Conabar had taken over the House of Rababull, a blood
relation. Conabar's friend was the savage outlaw warlord Kadrug, an
enemy of the great Emperor Euphrates.
To this, Emperor Euphrates was characteristically unresponsive. To have
enemies was nothing new, and more than a few had dined on a last supper
of live coals for speaking the merest word against him.
The usual complaining went on. Conabar wanted to ravish their ailing
old bodies. Conabar this. Conabar that. The wailing, the screaming, the
emotional invectives presented quite a spectacle. When Emperor
Euphrates had just about had enough of their nonsense and was almost
ready to waggle a finger and have them all sent away as the pests that
they were, he heard the name of Puffat, and at mention of this he
abruptly held up his left hand to forestall the womens' chatter.
Raising his bushy eyebrows quizzically, Emperor Euphrates turned to his
Chief Adviser, Borla, and held out his right hand to Borla like a
peasant in the heat of barter.
"Puffat?" said Emperor Euphrates. "Where before have I heard the name
of one called Puffat?"
For he knew he had heard it somewhere, at least once.
Borla, a tall, thin figure who invariably appeared in royal court
wearing the darkest of robes, who was fond of keeping his
haggard-looking head deeply and perpetually hooded, and who was not
Royal Advisor for nothing, astutely put his long left index finger
straight up beside the right nostril of his long, thin, protruding nose
with a heavy frown, and sniffed not once but several times, somewhat
noisily and theatrically. This was not done to insult Emperor
Euphrates, but to further magnify His Majesty. Noses had much to do
with majesty, as any proper emperor could tell you. It was Borla's
formal thinking posture.
Finally, Borla nodded his head in satisfaction, and bowed peremptorily
before looking up at his Emperor wisely.
"Puffat," rumbled Borla, who had a very deep voice, "is the offspring
of a distant but honorable relation on your mother's sister's
daughter's cousin's side, thrice--Ahem!; removed, in each instance."
"Ah! 'Thrice', you say? A most noble number," Emperor Euphrates agreed,
raising his eyebrows and then frowning over the more meaningful
possible aspects of this curious twist of fate.
"Quite so, your Majesty," agreed Borla dryly and noncommittally.
Emperor Euphrates turned to the widows and waved encouragement with an
imploring motion of his right hand, using the common bartering gesture
of the market place, and imploring them with a partially raised, cupped
hand.
"Say on," said Emperor Euphrates, with a brief, commanding nod of royal
encouragement.
One called Puffat, said three or four women, who all began to speak at
once and in various overweening affectations and mannerisms -the dreary
virtues of long-ago beauties, these- had been extremely sick and in
pain beyond torment with the gain-green in his leg, when Kadrug had
taken over the sluice gates, and slain Rababull with the edge of the
sword when he valiantly went forth to battle.
Meanwhile, the women further alleged, Master Rababull's trusted
blood-relation, Conabar, had crept to the House gates unawares and
mercilessly slain Old Maskron when that unsuspecting worthy came and
opened them.
Then the intruders, acting on their leader Conabar's orders, had
promptly searched out and summarily executed all of Master Rababull's
remaining children in a pathetic blood-bath.
At this, Emperor Euphrates had somewhat testily held up a forestalling
hand, and after their jibber-jabber had died away, he said with a
frown, "Eh, about one called Puffat..."
There was a moment of stunned silence, as the women seemed to take a
moment to realize that any number of personal complaints would get them
nowhere near as much sympathy as whatever they could conjure up about
Puffat.
Then all at once the recriminations resumed, centered perfectly on the
outrages suffered by one called Puffat.
One called Puffat, the women alleged, was seen crying out in extreme
agony on account of the aggravated torments from his gain-green, as he
was summarily dragged out and executed by no less a personage than
Conabar himself, to eliminate him as a possible contender for the
Headship of the House of Rababull.
As the perceptive widows watched him and played on his sympathies like
shameless minstrels singing a love song for a handful of coppers,
Emperor Euphrates, his eyes growing more fiery with their every word,
slowly drew himself more vertically upright whilst sitting in his stone
throne, and angrier still as he leaning successively still farther and
farther forward until he seemed to ready to fall upon them all, until
the widows finally began to quail at the sight of him and one by one,
fell silent.
All but one old crone.
Oh yes! she declared, playing it for all she was worth. Old and
useless, she would have death or glory, and cannily raised her cracking
voice in shameless petition for the lost virtues of Puffat, a
many-times thrice-removed relation of the Emperor!
Puffat suffered horribly before execution, declared she, with one
squinted eye and one enlarged, red-rimed one in her woeful lamentations
to an increasingly wrathful Emperor. Puffat's beautiful brown eyes were
put out, wailed she. Puffat's big toes and thumbs were hacked off,
gesticulated she, jerking at her own toes and thumbs with either bony
hand and a rising croak of wheezing lungs and that unnerving, squinting
stare.
Puffat's excruciatingly agonizing gangrenous leg was kicked repeatedly.
Puffat this. Puffat that.
"Enough!!"
Emperor Euphrates finally slammed his fist down on the chair arm and
jerked himself straight upright in his seat, towering over them all in
a furious rage.
In the sudden silence, he glared down at the silent cluster of
terrified widows.
"Borla!!" pronounced Emperor Euphrates, grating out his Chief Advisor's
name.
"Hmm?" said Borla, somewhat jittery at the rank savagery of his
Emperor's expression. But he was nothing, if not competent, and showed
no further sign of his nervousness as he quickly recovered himself and
fell smoothly into the litany of his accustomed royal pronouncements.
Borla turned to face the audience, and cleared his throat loudly.
"Ahem! His Majesty the Emperor Euphrates, is off-ended," said Borla as
he turned significantly to Ampho, the Royal Crier.
"Eh? What was that?" asked the latter, starting upright as if he had
been lost in a daze.
Ampho, the Royal Crier, beaked of nose and as thin as a reed, blinked
in a rapid fluttering of his rheumy, myopic eyes as if he were suddenly
roused out of a deep trance, and perked up his ears anew as he finally
managed to take his eyes off the quacking old crone. He raised his
bushy eyebrows and turned his hoary-haired and white-bearded
countenance in an aside to Borla as he raised his bushy eyebrows
alertly.
"Say again?" repeated Ampho.
The Royal Crier's occasional impudence was tolerated by Borla because
he always managed to put on quite a show, and also because the Emperor
Euphrates was so fond of the old ditherer, who was endeared to his
majesty by virtue of having been old and gray-haired at such a time as
his Imperial Majesty was still playing naked in the royal mud.
Betraying ill-concealed impatience, Borla repeated himself.
At this, Ampho, raised his voice and replied quickly with an air of
self-importance and officiousness, "Ahem! As his Highness wishes!"
Then he raised and settled his shoulders bravely as he opened his
mouth, screwed his eyes shut tightly, tilted his head back, and bawled
loudly into the high vaulted stone ceiling, "All keep silence before
the great Emperor Euphrates!"
A chorus of Court Officers immediately chanted, "All give ear and keep
silence!"
In the sudden silence, the widows shifted their eyes nervously around
the crowded court, fearful of the awesome power of the great Emperor
Euphrates that so many should automatically kowtow to him with such
unfailing ritual precision.
"Mark my words," said Emperor Euphrates. This was spoken for the
benefit of the Royal Scribe, one called Ibi, who was also a man of
great age like unto Ampho. Off to one side, aged Ibi promptly reached
for his marking sticks, and impatiently signaled an apprentice to
deliver a fresh clay tablet to him.
"One called Puffat," declared Emperor Euphrates, "has died an honorable
death."
"Here ye all! One called Puffat..." Ampho cried out, howling Emperor
Euphrates' pronouncements. When he had finished repeating the
proclamation, he turned his head to his emperor and waited for the next
royal pronouncement.
"One called Conabar," said Emperor Euphrates, "and one called Kadrug,
both of whom doth magnify themselves against the Imperial throne and
doth conspire unlawfully to slay his relations and diminish his blood
line, shall appear before His Majesty, and their entrails shall be read
to determine their guilt or innocence."
When Emperor Euphrates paused for breath, Ampho raised his voice and
howled the decree loudly. Thus were pronounced both men's death
sentences in typically indirect fashion.
Emperor Euphrates's claim to being a divinely appointed ruler and
sorcerer depended most frequently and blatantly upon the habitual
practice of killing off some victim for who-cares-what offence, and
then ceremonially 'reading' the victim's entrails, invariably
pronouncing that their guilt and worthiness of death by execution was
clearly foretold there.
It was a most convincing and persuasive prophecy, in spite of it's
self-fulfilling nature, which others took especial note of in their
earnest praises of their beloved Emperor for his great powers of
divination, and also, his even greater powers of extinction.
It made him an Emperor to be feared beyond all reason in the eyes of
his people. He was always 'right', and if someone was later found by
delayed discovery of direct physical evidence to the contrary or some
such nonsense to have been innocent of all charges, Emperor Euphrates
had their entrails formally brought before him again -which were
magically brought forth from the bowels of a living chicken- whereupon
he typically reread them, and found the poor soul innocent.
What a truly miraculous display of the supernatural powers of royal
divination.
He was always faithful to grant an immediate pardon.
Next, Emperor Euphrates said significantly, to Borla, "What is mine, is
mine."
The meaning of this was long-rehearsed by so many repetitions gone
before, that Borla knew exactly what Emperor Euphrates meant by it.
Borla bowed low, and straightening, turned to Ampho and pronounced
dryly, "The Emperor giveth, and the Emperor taketh away. The former
House of Rababull is to be seized from one called Conabar."
Ampho raised his nostrils to the rafters and howled with considerable
vigor for one of such advanced years, "It pleases his Majesty the
Emperor Euphrates that the House of Rababull, and all it's bond
persons, shall become the property of the Emperor, as compensation for
the death of one called Puffat, the son of a distant and honorable
relation!"
Deceased relations of the Emperor always "died honorably". If they
could not be said to have "died honorably", they were first formally
disowned, that their affairs might be judged the more harshly.
"Lastly," Emperor Euphrates finished, "a stipend is declared for the
widows of one called Rababull." He gave the nod to Borla.
Borla braced himself with an ever-so-slight, momentary lift to his
heels and shoulders, and said simply to Ampho, "His Majesty's mercies
are everlasting; let the widows become street beggars."
"The widows of the House of Rababull," Ampho bawled appropriately,
"have been granted royal permission to beg in the streets without
molestation, provided they do not impede pedestrian traffic or
interrupt the bar-gaining of the traders and honored thieves."
In other words, they could beg if they kept their silence about it and
managed to stick out their alms bowels in the paths of travelers
whilst keeping out from underfoot of both man and beast.
After all, it was a great honor to be permitted to beg without offense.
The astonished and indignant widows of the House of Rababull, formerly
of such self-serving pride and cruelty towards those pathetic and
tormented slaves immediately under their harsh household rule, were
herded from the court amidst the jeers and laughter of the throngs by
the rude barks and gestures of the stern-faced Palace Guards.
Emperor Euphrates rose to his feet, whereupon Ampho immediately bawled
out in a veritable falsetto screech, "All bow!"
This wasn't just good protocol. It was exceedingly difficult to throw a
knife, shoot an arrow, or hurl a spear at Emperor Euphrates if one was
bowing so low as not to be able to even look at him, or anything else
for that matter, except the tiny section of floor being rubbed clean by
the tip of one's prostrated nose.
By the same token, any who did not bow were immediately perceived by
the watchful guards as the threat they very possibly were, and would
immediately be thrust through with lances on the spot.
It was a very good and safe way to exit and enter. Kings and Emperors
who were so foolish as to allow the crowds to cheer them on while they
gloriously entered or exited ran the risk of being skewered in the
process simply because it was so hard for a guard to pick out the one
who had smuggled arms past the Royal Checker of Weapons and
Headcoverings, both of which must be removed in the Emperor's presence
anyways. It was too easy to let fly amidst the mass confusion of bodily
movements of such agitated throngs.
This way, no one could move besides His Majesty the Emperor Euphrates
himself. Thus, he was safer, because a man had to move before he could
use a weapon, and if he tried he would instantly be picked out and
dealt with soon enough to assure the Emperor a good long life.
* * *
But a spy warned Conabar, who abandoned the House of Rababull and
immediately fled.
Kadrug, seeing that he had not nearly enough advantage of position or
force of men to withstand Emperor Euphrates, wisely chose to retreat
also and withdrew to the wilds.
Throughout the coming week, rumor had it that Kadrug and Conabar had
sued one another for peace and pledged themselves in a blood oath to
become allies against Emperor Euphrates, and it was avidly rumored that
Kadrug had giants.
Emperor Euphrates had no giants.
* * *
Several days passed, during which time all property transfers were
effected from the former House of Rababull to the royal treasury of
Emperor Euphrates. The fate of the slave holdings of Master Rababull
was of low priority, but they were finally got round to.
* * *
"Well, don't be frightened, step up!"
At the wizened old Court Officer's bidding, a reluctant Si'Wren, whose
turn had finally come, stepped forward several awful, final steps to
stand, eyes miserably downcast, before the great and terrible Emperor
Euphrates.
"Your name, slave?" requested the court officer, a minor underling
named Baschal.
Si'Wren, having made a vow to the Invisible God never to speak,
remained silent.
If only Habrunt could be here to speak for her, but she had not seen
him since being left here by him several days ago, and did not know
what had become of him since. She knew him to be useless for work
because of his injuries from the merciless whipping. Habrunt's last
words had been to reassure her that in a world of such unsurpassing
evils, only in the royal household would she be not mistreated, and
that only there would she, without his strength to protect her, be
safe. He said that she should not worry about him because he knew he
would be given his freedom rather than unduly burden the food coffers
of the slave quarters as an unprofitable cripple.
Si'Wren was grieved to hear Habrunt speak down on himself in this way.
She would never call him useless or unprofitable, no matter what his
condition. But unfortunately, it was not for her to decide, so she
trusted Habrunt implicitly in everything he said. Si'Wren desperately
yearned to see Habrunt, and missed him beyond all reason, but there was
no one to turn to now.
"Well, speak up!" the man said gruffly to Si'Wren.
There ensued a momentous wait, perhaps a span of three or four breaths,
while the great Emperor Euphrates grew increasingly impatient at first,
and then, with a narrowing of his eyes, actually showed genuine
interest in her. After all, this one was not only harmless, but an
astonishing beauty. She could easily be excused of any number of
imagined insults, and made to toe the line readily enough when final
judgements were proclaimed.
But the girl -eyes downcast- remained stubbornly silent.
Frowning darkly, Borla finally stepped forward from his position of
direct attendance on the Emperor's right hand, and motioned away
Baschal with a little impatient flick of his fingers.
Gazing skeptically down upon her from within the deep folds of his
hooded robe, Borla grimaced at her distastefully and said, as from a
great height, "It seems this rebellious slave has lost her manners,
Highness. Perhaps she should lose her life as well!"
At this, Si'Wren's eyes grew wide with fright and surprise, but still
she said nothing.
Borla suddenly turned and said sharply to one of the Captains of the
Palace Guard, "Give me a sword."
The requested item was promptly produced by a guard, and handed over to
Baschal, who promptly took it and handed it over in turn to the Chief
Advisor to the Emperor.
"Now," said Borla testily, with no small degree of impatience. "For the
last time; what is thy name, girl?"
Si'Wren stood immobile as she regarded the edge of the gleaming sword
which Borla held up just beneath her chin at the throat, and slowly
shook her head.
"Very well," said Borla, as he withdrew the sword and held it up for
the death stroke. "His Majesty can be quite reasonable at times. You've
obviously chosen to die for your insolence, and it is His pleasure to
grant you your wish..."
"Withhold thy hand," said Emperor Euphrates suddenly.
Borla hesitated, his arm tensed for the downswing, and regarded his
Emperor in a look of self-evident deference.
"As you wish, Highness," said Borla, as he bowed low and handed the
sword back to the underling again. "What is thy pleasure, Sire? Name
it, and I shall not hesitate..."
"Bring her to me," said Emperor Euphrates.
The Emperor's words echoed throughout the absolute, dead silence of the
throne room as a thousand spectators looked on in shocked horror, and
Si'Wren gasped involuntarily as Borla's heavy hand dropped firmly onto
her slender shoulder, filling her pounding heart with sudden dread.
Escorted forward, Si'Wren kept her eyes dutifully lowered as she sought
not to behold her Emperor, whom she had never ever seen before in her
whole short life, let alone heard the remotest details of the daily
existence of. She vaguely recalled her first, distant impression of his
great bearded countenance, his fleshy features, and his eyes so full of
overwhelming intelligence and power upon first entering the judgement
hall.
As soon as Borla halted, Si'Wren stopped and stood utterly motionless
beside him, eyes downcast as her great and terrible Lord leaned
slightly forward on his throne. Borla kept his hand on her shoulder.
More curious than offended, Emperor Euphrates regarded the shy but
stubborn slave girl as Borla looked on intently from within his hooded
visage. Indeed, the whole court seemed to hold it's breath.
"Come here, child," said Emperor Euphrates, as he wiggled an index
finger to beckon her nearer.
In the midst of that frozen silence of so many disbelieving and
incredulous faces, Si'Wren kept her eyes downcast and remained immobile.
"Come," bid her Lord and Emperor again.
After another long hesitation, Si'Wren finally shuffled forward, a step
at a time, while the fierce-looking Borla let his hand fall without
impediment from her shoulder to slip away unnoticed.
Si'Wren stopped again, instinctively realizing that she had seen no
one, throughout all earlier court proceedings, approach so close
before, especially with such menacing guards looking on from all sides.
"Closer," Emperor Euphrates commanded. "Why so shy? Let me get a good
look at you. That's it. Now tell me, why do you not speak when
commanded?"
Eyes downcast, Si'Wren shook her head, giving her answer to this and
also clearly showing her ability to hear and understand quite plainly,
and remained standing utterly silent and resolute before him.
Emperor Euphrates peered narrowly at the stubborn girl.
"Do you not know that it is death to disobey your Emperor? Speak, I
command you."
But Si'Wren could not break her vow again, as she had done that
terrible night when Habrunt came to rescue her. She must never speak
again, no matter what, lest she dishonor her Invisible God.
Raising his eyebrows in frustration, Emperor Euphrates looked up at the
throng and proclaimed, "Is this child a deaf and dumb mute? Is there
any present who knows why this child refuses to obey her Emperor?"
Off to the left, one of Sorpiala's consorts stepped several quick steps
forward and fell down prostrate on her face with the muffled cry, "Aye,
Highness!"
"Ah," nodded Emperor Euphrates approvingly. "What say you?"
"She is neither deaf, nor dumb, nor mute, but has been sworn to a vow
of silence by her former master, on her very life, as fitting
punishment for being a filthy idol-breaker!" declared the young woman,
turning her head about quickly as she swept the royal court with her
flashing eyes.
A general gasp of horror rose up from the crowd, with many individual
exclamations of outright shock and disbelief.
"You so bear witness?" formally asked Emperor Euphrates.
"Aye!" the woman said with ill-disguised spite, looking up from the
floor. She was obviously relishing the opportunity to inform everyone
of the horrible crime and subsequent vow. "If the evil girl should
speak but once in a lifetime, her disloyalty to her own vow shall
constitute faithful witness against her and her forbidden god, the
Invisible One, that they are both false, and she is to be immediately
executed! So sward she herself in front of her former owner; one called
Master Rababull."
Emperor Euphrates digested this new bit of information in ruminative
silence for a moment without showing the slightest sign of what his
personal opinion might be of it.
"Very well," said Emperor Euphrates finally. "It is most unusual, but a
vow is a vow."