LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - THE ASSASSINS - SECTION 1

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC

THE ASSASSINS- SECTION 1

After the joyous event, Heaven continued to smile on the inhabitants of that remote Mountain dwelling as each continued with their daily routines in blissful co-existence.  Typically, as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, what they did not know, and could not have foreseen was that, in another part of the country, far, far away, the green-eyed providence had already dealt them the hazard card.

It so happened that the ever-present peril Brandt Dustin and Duan, by a quirk of fate had just then attained that singular advantage when, on the heels of several bizarre coincidences, their persistent unholy quest brought them to the vicinity of Heaven's Gate Spiritual Temple. 

Previously, (akin to) resembling two mounted specks, they had spurred their horse’s day after day in an unrelenting gallop to cover considerable ground in one of the most expansive and hostile regions. Having long since lost his bearings, Brandt   nevertheless had done his utmost to keep up with Duan’s unbelievable stamina and furious speed.  In all that time, the latter, a poor company grunted few begrudging words, and this only at nightfall while they partook (ingested) dried sustenance in advance of the negligible, brief respite by the makeshift campfire. Even this slight measure, Brandt   suspected, Duan had only acceded to solely out of consideration for their mounts.

 Solitude or grueling schedule was not the worst of it, Duan’s indifference, his oftentimes manifest condescending side glances or that intolerable, periodic wry grimaces, compounded Brandt’s ire making him yearn for a diversion: even an onslaught from the fiercest bandits was preferable to this!  Brandt   who’d spent most of his life in the hub of a densely populated Capital city, in effort to escape this abhorrent monotony, recently had allowed himself certain secret indulgences of ruminations concerning   those barely passable human habitations and the odd myriad characters and the ensued events that had by degrees, with each leg of the journey gained more significance.  He was amid one such, when just then detecting the slight wisp of dust beyond the next hump (hill) of this irregular, sporadically forested landscape, Brandt   sat up straight and elatedly turned his head askew to speak, but meeting Duan’s mocking, sardonic smile, he quickly checked his tongue.

 Duan simply nodded then spurred his mount in that very direction. Before long they had come upon a very welcome sight, a cluster of devout pilgrims with their necessary entourage, as it was the usual time for the pilgrimage, trudging along and at times managing with some competence, the narrow gravel corridor that cut through a difficult terrain. Knowing at the end of their route there would be a place of worship Brandt   grinned wryly, constraining   his rather bursting excitement. Inwardly however, he was delighted at this unexpected reprieve from the elements and looked forward to ingesting hot meals and resting his weary bones in sure to be a more suitable lodging. The last thing he expected however was the unreasonable, staunch resistance from Duan. Eventually, when Duan’s amusement and the hilarity of Brandt’s ingenious arguments grew tiresome for Duan, he then feigning   to have been persuaded had tersely consented to the plan and the brief stay at the Temple.

 At dusk they stealthily approached the group that had pitched camp and, expanding only a slight effort, obtained the necessary items (religious artifacts) and garb. Now appropriately disguised, at first daylight they quietly adjoined the ranks of countless pious affiliates seeking routine salvation or absolution.

Subsequent days, the resolute snaking line descended then ascended the strenuous, oftentimes challenging, winding path to finally arrive at a clearing before the towering imposing arch.  All pilgrims now welcomed, right away gongs were sounded with a deafening   noise, after which the thick metal gates slowly creaked open to pave the way. The enthusiastic devotees without (apparent) ostensible, serious scrutiny or hindrance, with that unmistakable excited aura all streamed in through the wide-open gates to crowd into the courtyard.

In no time at all the well-organized Hostellers succinctly saw to it that all pious visitors were duly registered, their special needs promptly addressed, and all were comfortably settled in their assigned quarters.

Likewise, after meeting the necessary expenses, Duan and Brandt   were also assiduously escorted to their modestly furnished quarters. Duan’s apparent preoccupation did little to mitigate Brandt’s disdainful air. Forgoing idle chatter, he had disappeared the moment Brandt’s back was turned, and upon his return, refused to give any explanation for his long absence.

That evening’s repast (at the Refectory) was tad too plain and coarse for Brandt ’s taste, still, it being palatable enough than most other places there’d been too, and feeling famished, he’d had his fill and washed it all down with refreshing liquids, mistakenly forgoing digestive tea.  Thus, in the small hours while all patrons and devotee guests were dead to the world, Brandt   moreover suffering dyspepsia, had endlessly turned, and tossed. Sometime or rather, he must have fallen asleep, for then he was cast into the throes of the same nightmare that tortured his soul.

In this horrific dream, once again he saw himself in that most wretched state, suffering the eternal torments of Hell. His hair disheveled, clothes torn, bleeding from countless lacerations, he was being subjected to the worst kind of humiliation and excruciating pain inflicted by those abominable, vile creatures of the underworld. Contemptible eunuch Egil Viggoaries was there also, he was in charge, laughing up a storm as he devoured the entrails of yet another poor victim squealing in pain, while at the same time he poked and prodded the unfortunate captive.

His father in the adjoining cell, suffering the infinite unspeakable tortures and beleaguered and besieged much in the same vile way, between his anguished, accusatory screams cursed Brandt   incessantly for having failed to avenge him. “Damn you, damn you coward…You are no son of mine! Oh, I should have killed you in your crib, while you slept and be done with the shame you have brought upon me…Shame, oh shame, shame!”

His anguished soul pushed to the brink Brandt; yet again (same as always) willed himself awake from this inexorable, unvarying nightmare.

 He lay still; casting his blank (vacant) gaze about for some time, inwardly striving hard to reassure his soul, his being of his actual present status, for his ears persisted in ringing with those hurtful curses! When after an extended period those relentlessly vivid, dreadful images of the nightmare refused to recede, determinedly he sprang from the bed, quickly dressed, and then exited the room for some breath of fresh air.

 After a time, still reluctant to return to sleep, he strolled aimlessly about the grounds. There were smaller temples dotting this sector, each housing a different God to accommodate different regions of the Country. Depending on need, devotees’ (aficionados’) visited the specific Deity, made offerings, and burned incense to it; then in supplicate, prayed or asked favors. Brandt   differing in his religious beliefs from this order, he cared not for the temples, images of Gods, their idols, or the elaborate displays.

After only a cursory glance at one such temple, Brandt   wrinkled his nose in disgust, turned, and headed out of the building. He strolled through the embellished gardens dappled with fountains and ponds teaming with rare fish, but once more he found nothing extraordinary to warrant his interest, he had seen far better elsewhere, so he bypassed these also to reach a more desolate area (corner).

Now, in addition to the usual sentries posted at the gate and the lookout towers, each night a different pair of monks were assigned to walk the grounds. Shunning   all of these, Brandt   took the unusual course, delving into forested segments, and by following unfrequented paths he emerged through the bushes at the (Dorter: which was the monk’s dormitory) private quarters of monks.

He was about to turn back when his sharp ears just then picked up the hushed voices of a couple of monks engaged in jovial conversation. His eyes searched the compound till he spotted a barely visible, dim light emanating from the stilts of one of the windows, a detached dwelling at the far end, nestled amidst the pines. Intrigued, he stealthily advanced towards it. The windowpane was left a tiny bit ajar to allow the fresh night’s air to come in. Brandt   quietly drew close and hiding in the shadows, he was poised to listen.

Whereas most slept blissfully (in their private cells), resting from days grueling chores, this odd pair was animatedly indulging in private conversation whilst sipping periodically from a cup that from time to time got refilled from a jar.

Brandt’s curiosity peaked, same time he was amused as he became more certain that this was no ordinary tea or other such sanctioned refreshments in which they were partaking.

"Brother Muro, I feel I must make a mention of this." One of them suddenly exclaimed in a pressing tone.

"What?"

"I am of the opinion that those two are not of our following."

Brandt   smiled wryly, grasping at once the subject of their conversation being himself and Duan.

"You’ve sounded (echoed) my own suspicions, Brother Fayet,” the other interposed.

"Perhaps that is why the High Priest granted them no audience and why they were allowed only a paltry couple of night’s stay."

"I was under the impression that couple of nights, was all they had asked for." Fayet countered.

“You should know,” Muro checking his annoyance, grunted.

"It’s not as if they can’t afford a lengthier stay; their money purse is weighty enough. Pity they will miss all the major events. Come to think of it, neither showed the least bit of interest in the religious itinerary, citing pressing engagements elsewhere! What did they hope to accomplish in this short span, I mean, why bother to come at all, why not postpone it till another more opportune time?”

"I am in total agreement with you, brother Fayet; yet no orders are given to keep them under close scrutiny or any sort of surveillance. As far as I know, no one is assigned to their case.” Muro fell silent and waited for confirmation that was not long in coming.

“You are correct on that assumption. “Fayet responded with a certain air of importance. He should know; he had three or four sources that always kept him up to date with anything of importance.

“Tell you what though, I think this is a grave oversight; why the dark complexioned one, the mere mention of him makes the hair on my neck stand on end, there’s something frightfully evil and unholy about him, and certainly I am not fooled by their humble, reserved almost pious attitudes.”

 "I concur.” Muro interjected. “They look quite formidable and if I dare venture a hunch, on the prowl for something deadly. And not in the least bit interested in absolving their decidedly massive, accrued sins. And know what else?” Muro gasped, "I can't shake the feeling that they leave death and destruction in their wake. This I feel deep in my bones to be true. I only hope their bad intentions aren't in any way directed at us or at the Order, especially now that we have grown so complacent within this last decade."

"Complacent, no, it only seems that way to you perhaps. But know what; you may have something there, especially about that one. He strikes me as someone quite ruthless and bloodthirsty too." Fayet thoughtfully intoned, as he stroked the top of his head.

Astute observation, Brandt   grinned. Wonder if it is enough to save your hides?

 "As it were, I did hear something about them asking some pretty strange questions before they retired." Fayet excitedly, recalling it to mind just then, put in.

"Really, what kind of questions; and whom did they ask? I was led to believe with their disdainful air, they had hardly dispensed a word to anyone, not even to brother Cui assigned to tend to their needs."

"You know I can’t enumerate; I’m always lost on fine details.” Fayet was being coy, maddeningly so. Seeing the frown on Muro’s face, he relented. “But if you must know, I just overheard Priest Lu raising certain objections about the strangers to Priest Nui."

"Fine one you are, stringing me along than leaving me high and dry. Are you trying to teach an old dog a new trick?"

"Ha and why not? But really, Brother Muro, I am being straight. I really do not know the true extent of their questions.  If you are so curious, why don't you ask Priest Lu next time you see him."

 “You know, in all the time I've been here, I have never encountered a stranger personages as these two save for that other bunch, you remember, the one-armed man's group last year and all that deferential treatment they got, even though they’d shown up at such an unusual time.”

Their idle chatter and useless bickering had by then begun to grate on Brandt’s nerves and he was about to take his leave, when the sudden mention of the one-armed man rekindled his interest.

Brandt   leaned over and peered through the crack unseen, to get a clearer view of the two conversing monks.

“You do remember them, right? “Fayet waited to receive a nod from Muro before continuing. “But at least they were pious, and I can say it with measure of certainty, very much in earnest with their prayers; after all, they did partake in all the religious ceremonies so hastily organized on their behalf. Our discerning   Abbot sure was interested in them and I believe Abbot Boqast Tizanzenn truly did enjoy their company…particularly the one-armed elder. His Eminence Boqast Tizanzenn conversed with him endlessly it seemed, something I had not seen the Abbot do in a long, long while.  Come to think of it, not ever! I mean, he is always so reservedly serious and seeks solitude.”

To this Muro gravely nodded in concurrence. “Hmmm, as I recollect, giving in to your suspicious nature for a long spell you did entertain colorful, hilarious suppositions about them also. Is it possible you could be just as wrong now? “

“I still say there was something quite intriguing, even mysteriously fantastic about that group, more so with that golden haired youth.”  Fayet responded indignantly, irritated and even bit hurt by the other’s persistent doubt where this matter was concerned.

"Now, what was it again,” Muro with his innate sadistic nature, could not resist needling him further. “Yes, now I remember. You had based your entire hypothesis on that list and the unfounded claim that the eldest of them had inscribed on the prayer requisite form the deposed monarch, Zuronghan  Therran Valamir’s and, what other name, oh yeah, Zhon something.  Hah, and this you had supposedly uncovered despite it being carefully erased by the alleged culprit!  Really, do you still assert the claim that they were spies?"

"A fine confidant you are!” Fayet, knitting his stubby brows hotly retorted. "Why don't you just below louder and announce it to the whole world? Walls have ears you know or is it your intention to land me in serious trouble! You said you would never mention it, is this how you keep your word?"

Muro’s gaze mockingly swept the room (immediate perimeter). “You see anyone else here? three or four odd ghosts, ha, ha” He snickered, shaking his head.

 “You have always been far too paranoid brother.  All are peacefully asleep in their beds already, only a fool would be out of a warm bed at this time of night when they don't have to be." Observing the other’s rising foul mood however, he relented.

 "Oh, why be so touchy, brother? I was just toying with you."  In a serious tone then he quickly added. "Besides, you know as well as I, nothing further came of it." 

At this juncture (point in time) Brandt, stepping out from the shadows turned the knob, brazenly walked in and said, “That remains to be seen.”

The startled Fayet and Muro both jumped up, spilling the contents of their cups.

"Oh, it's you, sir.” Muro, recognizing Brandt, quickly found his tongue.

Fayet getting a grip was about to coolly castigate (rebuke) this rude intrusion when Brandt’s poignant look promptly silenced him.

Concealing his contempt for the two for more can be attained by a glib tongue; Brandt   in the next instant however, sporting a wry grin (false smile), somewhat congenially, accosted them and extended his polite greetings, as well, his seemingly sincere apologies for the sudden intrusion that had inadvertently alarmed them. Then getting right to the point, he asked, "Please do not be offended but, though I did not mean to, I’ve accidentally overheard the singular topic of your conversation regarding the one-armed man.” His blunt speech had left no room for denial.

  “Be assured that this information shall be kept in the strictest confidence.” smiling, in a more conciliatory tone he then quickly added. “It so happens that I am searching for one such person. But first, may I inquire after the one-armed gentleman's name so as to be absolutely ascertained that we are speaking of the same being."  He paused for a response that was not forthcoming, checking his rile nevertheless, he sternly added, "The individual I am seeking is named Lord Asger Thuxur Marrog Zhon".

 Though he had observed the slight discoloration in Fayet’s face (cheeks), Muro had been far better at masking his shock and threw Brandt   a curious, stupefied look, as if to say, “Have I heard you right?”

Brandt   disregarding this, in an even tone asked further, “More importantly, may I inquire how long ago the visitors been at these premises, and upon their departure which direction did they take? I am disposed to showing my proper appreciation as well my discretion, for any such useful information either of you gentle monks may deign to impart."  His hand rested on the bulge in his garment where his money purse rested.

What a gall! What nerve! Muro thought. Barging in here without shame, blatantly playing a cat and mouse game with us than assuming we are bribable. After all that, am I supposed to accept that his intentions are perfectly honorable?

 

Fayet inward queries were similar in nature, though slightly more selfish and deviant. How can I be certain that, after he extracts the information, he would not then expose my indiscretions, a sure violation, to my superiors? Though, I confess, the size of that purse is mighty tempting!

 

In the end both had decided to play it safe. "Sir, you must have misunderstood our repartee, (banter) hmm, idle conversation. We really made no such reference to any such person.”

“I’m in agreement with my fellow monk here.” Muro quickly interjected, even though he knew it would be a futile act. “We tend to exaggerate facts during our discourse, a harmless feat really, for the purposes of spicing up the exchange. As for the name you just mentioned, you must surely jest. Was that not the traitor Lord whose name you spoke of, long since dead?"  Frowning, he added, "Besides, for your own safety's sake, you should not be stirring at this late hour so far from the guest compounds. Suppose we mistook you for a prowler and caused you unwarranted harm?"

"That's right", Fayet stupidly chimed in, "for, on top of that, at night many evil spirits are abound."

Muro turned a furious face, an unconcealed irked glare at his friend.

"Both of your concerns are touching", Brandt   mocked, "but I am most capable of defeating all manner of foe, whether it be man, ghost or goblin, so you needn't be concerned for my safety.  Now, gentle monks, please do not insult my intelligence any further with your muddled contentions and flimsy excuses. Perhaps I have not made myself perfectly clear.”  His icy tone biding no argument, sent chills down Fayet’s spine. Even Muro felt the slithering unease taking hold of his entire body. “You shall be well compensated for your troubles; as well, I mean to extend to you both, my utmost discretionary tact.”

I do so detest such arrogance.   Still with the cat out of the bag … Fayet had already begun to relent; very much tempted he was, with the promise of generous funds. Besides, if I do not take the initiative Muro surely will. Then I would feel horrible; wouldn't I, having lost this golden opportunity?  Still, I will have to exercise due caution for there is a lot at stake here. Can I do that, I wonder, and still benefit from this deal?

Here Muro differed in his contemplation, being the worldlier one of the two; meanwhile he could not shake the overwhelming sensation of peril and being trapped. Unable to decide on the right course, frightened of Fayet’s innate weakness, the two exchanged guarded, dubious looks.

Whatever the reason (cause), they both held their tongues and donned an annoyed look instead, feigning disapproval at this stranger's audacity.

Brandt, on the point of losing his patience, what had just then crossed his mind, if they had only known, would have sent more icy chills down their spine, and cast their souls to flight. 

Unlike Duan however, Brandt   knew when it was wise to constrain his murderous intent; for these temples with their strong political backers, could land him in grievous, unwarranted trouble that could hamper his cause. So, with admirable restraint, he again addressed them.

"Sirs, this pointless delay is beginning to try my patience."    This time there was no mistaking it, his insidious smile, deliberately, did not mask the vile murderous intent that had registered fleetingly in his eyes.

Fayet (assimilating this) did his best to slow his beating heart, to purge his mind of those frightful, ugly thoughts but his sallow (pale) complexioned face still contorted with fear. He opened his mouth to comply when Muro held him back by tugging at his sleeve.

"We know not of his true identity, sir, being only lowly monks, otherwise we would not have referred to him only as the one-armed man.” Muro’s indignation anew fueling his courage, he stood his ground.

“You must discretely pose your question to one more knowledgeable than we, perhaps to Prior Skceno.” Fayet suggested meekly, not wishing to be undone.

"Very well, then. I will trouble you no further. Good night gentle monks."  With that, Brandt   turned to go.

All the blood in his veins rushed hotly to Fayet's face. He now regretted his hasty lie, having come this close to receiving the sum of money. What was I thinking of? Is not this fear imagined? This is a fortuitous blessing that Muro and I stood to gain. Is there a way I wonder; can I recoup (redeem) this rare opportunity?

Fayet was a grasping man by nature, and he was now dismayed over the possibility of letting all that money slip through his fingers. Eventually he decided that all was not lost yet, he could still catch up with latter if he hastened. He on some pretext therefore quickly left his friend. But no sooner had Muro retreated inside, and his door was closed shut than Fayet with certain agility, sprang into action and rushed to accost the stranger.

In truth Brandt   had dallied with his advance, anticipating the expected outcome. Hearing Fayet’s call, Brandt   stayed his steps and half turned. Fayet straining   to maintain an even breath, hastened at once to apologize, offering a flimsy excuse for his show of hesitancy, then broaching a matter disguising the query, sought to learn the amount the stranger was willing to proffer.

 At this point Brandt   gave a sly smirk then, opening   his purse held the sum in his palm as bait. Out of earshot of Muro, Fayet sang like a bird, spilling his guts out to tell every detail he could think of, that pertained to Stark, his group and much, much more.

After Fayet finished saying all there was to say, Brandt with his contemptuous smile nodded his head and made a pretense of accidentally dropping the sum at his feet just as he was about to hand it to Fayet.

The monk was forced to bow to the stranger's feet to pick them up one by one, and when he straightened up (rose) with the collected, gleaming sum, the other had already gone.

Muro had watched this disgrace from a concealed position at some distance. Rage swelled within his chest as he shook his head in indignation at the shameful conduct of his friend. Coming forward now, he fervently grumbled at Fayet.

"How can you allow that man to humiliate you in that way?” he stormed, shaking an accusatory finger at Fayet.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"He purposefully dropped that money to make you lose face. Have you no shame?"

"No, it is you who are making things up to embarrass me. You are just jealous because I received this sum instead of you."  Fayet trembled with rage, then calmed a bit to say in a milder tone, "Brother, don't you know that I mean to give you your share?"  He drew out a small amount and offered it to Muro.

“I wouldn't touch his money even if I was destitute." Muro spat on the ground as he pushed Fayet’s hand away. He was still furious at the stranger. “Manipulations, threats weren’t enough; he had to insult you as well.”

"What did you say, Brother Muro?” Fayet pretended not to have heard.

"Oh, forget it!” Muro huffed exasperatedly as he turned to walk away.

"Hey, wait up. What is with you anyway?"  Fayet swiftly deposited the entire amount into his inner pocket, rushed to catch up with his friend.

                                                       ~                                                

 

(END OF SECTION 1)

LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - THE WEDDING - SECTION 7

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC

THE WEDDING - SECTION 7

In the small hours of the night when all were fast asleep and not a soul stirred, Duan quietly rose from his bed and stole into Souko Yeru’s room.  With contempt in his eyes, he severed the head with one merciless stroke, without waking Souko’s companion that shared his bed.  Instantly the pillow and the bedding were dyed crimson red.  With the coolness of the assassin, Duan wiped his sword’s blade clean on the quilt and then withdrew from the room, not disturbing the cat sleeping just outside their door.

Slipping back to his room, Duan began packing the supplies and some of his belongings; Brandt, fortunately a light sleeper, jumped from his bed with a start and very much afraid to be left behind, hastily followed suit.  Nothing untoward in Duan’s manner warned Brandt of the murder.  Since Duan never had breakfast, another hardship which Brandt was forced to bear; the two quickly and quietly descended the stairs and made their way to the stables in back.

Riding two fine chargers, one black and one red-brown, Brandt and Duan passed quickly through the deserted streets well before cock’s crow, as the day’s first light began breaking.  When they cleared the town’s gates, which were almost never closed or locked, they encountered a level stretch of wild fields stretching out into the distance where they changed into wavelets of low-lying hills, some decked with trees, some stripped bare to supply the town with fuel and building material.

“Look,” Brandt pointed (his riding crop) off into the hills, “another early riser; I wonder who he could be?”  After fixing his gaze on the back of the rider, he nodded his head and answered his own question.  “But of course, it’s that remarkable youth I conversed with at the tavern yesterday.  The one called Audun Colden, the false lead I told you about.” Frowning, he looked at his companion. But Duan, appearing somewhat distracted paid scant attention to the rest of Brandt’s words.  His eyes narrowed to slits, as he suspiciously followed the stranger’s advance in the far distance.  Inwardly he questioned a premonition, tinged with misgivings that had suddenly gripped his heart.  He vacillated on whether to pursue this Audun person or not, when just then Svein’s horse suddenly reared then galloped forward at lightning speed.  Within minutes both rider and horse had been reduced to a mere speck, leaving only a long trail of dust behind them. 

When the dust completely settled and their vision was no longer obscured, the lone horseman had totally disappeared.  Duan knew that there was a fork in the road up ahead, with each branch rounding the hills in different directions.  With the gale force winds fast sweeping away (obliterating) any existing tracks, they would doubtless squander unwarranted time before construing with measure of certainty the stranger’s path.  Better to follow this other, more tangible lead; than tracking this youth on the sole basis of a hunch.

                                                                                    ~

 With the incessant wind moaning in his ears and flailing away at his face, Svein had held tightly to the reins, anxious only about the security of the bundles.  After several hours of riding at this speed, however, his stomach threatened to discharge the breakfast the innkeeper had pressed on him.  When Fiery Comet finally slowed down, well after clearing the hills and the forest beyond them, Svein found himself once more in the wilderness, far removed from any civilization, not even a lonely woodcutter’s hut.

“Whoa… What brought this on?” Svein pulled on the reins and, presently, managed to halt the steed.  Then leaning over, he affectionately patted Fiery Comet’s neck and asked,

 “What was wrong, dear friend?  What made you hasten so, without my command?” 

But, lacking human speech, Fiery Comet neighed and whinnied, his hooves churning the ground twice to make him-self understood. He was already covered in pearls of perspiration and did not need this added exertion. 

As it were, Svein, with his keen senses, had already picked up the presence of the two riders in pursuit. Furthermore, he’d discerned the reason for the horse’s initiative; still, he could not resist teasing Fiery Comet.

 “Up to your old tricks, I see.” he smiled as he dismounted.

 “All right then, let us rest for a bit before having another go at it.”  Still chuckling, he led the horse to the fast-flowing river. 

Securing his footing, he squatted, cupped his hands, and started to drink the water and wash his face.  The wind puffed up his sleeves and flailed his loosened hair furiously against his wet face, obscuring his vision. 

He heard Fiery Comet’s approach but ignored it.

 The horse, annoyed at Svein’s earlier taunting, stopped quite close to Svein’s side but, instead of quenching his thirst, in one quick move he simply shoved Svein headlong into the river.

 

“What’s the matter with you?  Can’t you take a joke?”  Svein cuffed (smacked, thwacked) the water in pretend fury. Fortunately, Svein was an accomplished (proficient) swimmer and therefore well able to manage the deep, fast-flowing currents of the river.

 Showing his teeth, Fiery Comet just whinnied in reply. 

“Oh well, you did me a favor.  I needed cooling off.”  Good naturedly forgiving the horse for his insolence, Svein then dove in and around and had an exhilarating few more laps of swim.

Fiery Comet quenched his thirst despite the interruptions when Svein drew near, expecting certain retaliation from him, then contentedly set to feeding on the lush green grass flanking the riverbank.  He had worked up quite an appetite from all that exertion.

At last, having cleared the sky of clouds, the wind died down and now with the midday sun blazing in all its glory, once more began to scorch the earth’s surface, sending all frolicking wild inhabitants of nature into the shade.  Emerging from the water by then chilled to the bone, Svein (shed) divested his wet clothes and hung them on the lower branches to dry, then spread out on the soft, already drooping grass for some warmth.  Soon the heat proved uncomfortable for him however, and he joined Fiery Comet for a well-earned respite under an ancient tree that had spread its generous shade to accommodate them both.

                                                                                        ~

                                                          

Svein’s sooner than anticipated safe return, delighted both Stark and Teuquob.  This short parting had endeared prospective couple still more to each other.  The bashful exchange between Svein and Teuquob barely contained the bursting affection and joy each carried in their heart for the other.  The great warmth and love that flooded the room gladdened Stark’s heart, but the air of contentment was overshadowed by Stark’s discernment that something unusual had transpired with Svein on this journey.  Nevertheless, Stark’s reserve constrained him, and forestalled his inquiry until the following morning when they could converse in private out of earshot of Teuquob.

At the conclusion of their routine martial practice, before Svein could find the words to broach his concern, Stark sat himself down quietly on a fallen tree trunk, and then motioned Svein to do the same, after which he acknowledged his perception and encouraged Svein to speak his mind without reserve.

“Uncle, does the name Brandt Dustin mean anything to you?” Svein burst forth with his question.  He did not expect Stark to know Brandt, but perhaps the family name Dustin could recall to Stark’s mind an old enemy.  Svein knew his uncle had an impeccable memory.

“No, I know no one by that name.” Stark obligingly replied then, affixing his questioning eyes on Svein, patiently waited for an explanation.

“Then, as I supposed, he must have given me a false name.” Svein muttered to himself then, mindful of his rude behavior, he quickly apologized and related the entire encounter with Brandt that night at the tavern.  As he did this, he kept his uncle under scrutiny, searching for the answers to his silent questions, but much to his disappointment, Stark’s expression underwent no change.

Just then, for a fleeting moment, Svein thought that he had detected and inkling of a grave look that had registered in his uncle’s eyes.  Encouraged by this, he pushed further to get results.  Falling on his knees before his uncle he, in an emotional outburst, implored Stark for enlightenment.  What measure of importance was Lord Asger Thuxur Marrog Zhon to him?  Was his uncle bound to this Lord by loyalty and respect, out of friendship or fealty?  Since, admittedly, the other of the twin swords was in Stark’s possession, how had Stark come by it?  Svein’s entreaties had erupted in a ceaseless flow of emotion, leaving Stark no word in edgewise.

Stark’s face flushed with anger as he sprung to his feet, freezing Svein’s next set of questions in his mouth.

“Such insolence, how dare you act so weak?” he stormed at Svein.  “Get up at once!”

In obedience Svein complied but an uninvited resentment flooded his heart.  Surely Uncle owes me some explanation.  Why must I abstain from raising these questions? Why is Uncle being so obstinate and closed-minded?  I’m old enough to be wed in two days’ time hence, can I not then be trusted to assimilate and then confront any situation, however grave, however shocking?

 Instead (of airing these however,) he apologized to his uncle for speaking out of turn.

Stark had anon (almost immediately after) regretted his outburst and now softened his disposition; he nodded his head and stroked his beard thoughtfully.  Then, after a momentary silence, which seemed more like an hour to Svein, he ejected in a more conciliatory voice, “Svein, it is with good reason that I must insist on you showing more restraint.”

 He again paused at length for emphasis.  “Please expend more effort to curtail your curiosity.  The knowledge you seek will be imparted to you at the proper time, when I shall be better disposed.”

“I will refrain from making such transgressions, Uncle.” Svein acquiesced in earnest.

“Good.  Let us now forget all about it and return without delay, there are a lot of details to be seen to before a proper marriage ceremony could transpire.”  So, saying, Stark started towards the bath cabin. 

As it happens, ever since Teuquob’d come to live with them, for the sake of modesty, certain routines had to be altered or entirely changed- one such was the fact that they no longer indulged in bathing in the nearby stream during the hot summer months.

As they washed beyond the partition Svein recalled Brandt’s reference to the Yukorskyi fighting style and briefly requested Stark to instruct him in it the next time they practiced, believing his uncle to be the master of all existing fighting styles.  In past, from bits of information received from his uncle during their casual conversations, he had concocted his own theories about his uncle’s past vocation, deeming him to be anything from a scholar with military prowess, to a military advisor, instructor, minister of war, field marshal or simply a general in the imperial army.  His uncle’s qualifications certainly attested to the validity of any of these titles.  The absence of response from Stark constrained Svein to remain silent and his thoughts once more reverted to Teuquob.

In truth, as Stark had emptied the buckets of cold water over his head letting the ripples course down his body, in uncharacteristic dissociation from the present, he’d begun seeing in his mind’s eye (envision) the unfolding pictures and scenes from the pages of his past. Subsequently, as he rubbed his body clean, he absentmindedly caressed the stump of his severed arm; at that juncture he was transported to the time of a singular incident that had changed his life forever.

He was on a tall, precipitous cliff, its summit crowned in frigid, feathered mists. At this high elevation, the thin atmosphere made one lightheaded. Still clad in his court gown, the child held in his arm and sword in hand, he was scattering his assailants to either side of him like petals in the wind.  Though he had always fought with two swords, being indisposed, the other rested in its sheath.

 He fought on foot for his horse had long been lost to him, brutally maimed then forced off the cliff into the abyss.  He was one against many, and their numbers could not be extinguished.

 With such odds stacked against him, despite his excellent prowess he was nevertheless forced into a defensive position, with his formidable foe, the one man who equaled, if not surpassed his own skill in swordsmanship, Grand Marshall Gustav Erling, close at his heels.

Brilliant tactician Stark had retreated up a narrow goat’s path that allowed only one man at a time to ascend; the Marshall’s army unable to flank Stark, fidgeted helplessly behind the Marshal like the long body of a serpent several miles in length, swords drawn, ready and anxious for a chance to fight. 

Grand Marshal Gustav Erling clashed swords so fiercely with Stark that cold, blue streaks of lightning cracked at every meeting of their blades.  Stark was again forced to retreat to still higher and higher ground to escape the Marshall’s deadly strikes, many of which were directed at the innocent child in Stark’s embrace.

“Why pursue this hopeless course. Unless you sprout wings and fly away, there is no place you can run to for safety.  Surrender now and I will show you mercy.”

“And the child, will you extend that mercy to the child?”

“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Not good enough!”

The life and death struggle thus had raged on ceaselessly for more than half a day on that ascending goat’s path. At times the trail was so tapered that Stark’s footing barely stable, dislodged rocks at the edge of the precipice and pieces of earthen debris, giving way, tumbled to the depths to be swallowed up in the fast-flowing river.

Once more, Grand Marshall Gustav Erling made a lightning thrust and again Stark parried it with equal agility. Despite the expanded effort and the unwavering intensity neither of them seemed to be abating in strength or stamina. Neither of them would succumb to defeat or capitulate.

 In order to break the stalemate, the most renowned marksman, who had been led close to the front of the serpent, now took careful aim and loosed his arrow.  But Stark nimbly deflected it with his sword letting the shaft glance off the cliff, and then with incredible dexterity he intercepted every one of Gustav Erling’s subsequent strikes and lunges.

With agile sideways turn, Stark escaped the next lethal arrow, just in time to parry Marshall’s sword.  At that point a newly loosened shaft, taking flight, missed its mark and by providence, pierced Marshall’s arm instead, rendering his left side momentarily useless.

 As he cursed them, with his eyes riveted on Stark, at lightning speed he yanked the arrow out and continued with his attack; he would be damned if he let a little thing like this get in the way of capturing his nemesis. 

GRAND MARSHALL GUSTAV ERLING

Interlocked in fierce combat with Grand Marshall Gustav Erling, Stark smiled wryly. Now at least they were equally matched. Moreover, this blunder would discourage the elite marksmen from discharging any more arrows, let along using poisoned arrows.

More time elapsed with the exchange of blows ensuing with all its ferocity. Then, as if fate had to (intercede) play its hand, the child squirmed and let out a sharp cry at the very instant more earth partially dislodged (gave way) under Stark’s feet.  Jumping to safety and steadying himself, with his attention temporarily distracted (sidetracked) by the child, he’d unavoidably presented a singular opportunity to his ardent foe.

In that fleeting moment, having failed to intercept Gustav Erling’s deadly strike, the Marshal’s blade sliced clean through bone and flesh severing Stark’s arm just below the elbow.

That scene– with the hand still gripping the hilt of the sword, arching over the cliff and spiraling downward into the depths- had played out in slow motion a hundred times since, in Stark’s mind.

At present, blood spurted from the stump dying his light blue garment a crimson red.  Pressing the child closer to his chest, he turned and fled towards the summit, as retreat now became his only viable option.

With roaring laughter, Marshall Gustav Erling pursued Stark, shouting his demands for Stark to cease his running and to surrender, with intermittent words of assurance that the child would not come to any serious harm.  But Stark was not swayed, for he knew only too well the cruelty of Marshall Gustav Erling, and how he could not be relied upon for mercy, despite any dispensed promises of amnesty.  His own salvation was of little consequence to Stark, but the child’s safety was paramount, and in keeping with that faith so many had sacrificed so much already, to afford this precious being a chance at life… How can he let all that be in vain?

  Reaching the end of the path, he halted, for sheer rocks rising ahead made any advance impossible.  Left defenseless, with nowhere else to retreat, Stark had to make a quick decision.

Though providence (destiny) presented this paltry chance, if any, of survival, it was still a preferable alternative to surrendering to that treacherous Gustav Erling, to in the end die ignominiously and by so doing, give satisfaction to that bloodthirsty usurper.

Determinedly thus, with the child clutched to his torso, and before Marshall Gustav Erling could reach him, he’d hurled himself and the child over the sheer cliff’s edge into space.

Gustav Erling had stamped his feet and cursed furiously in Stark’s imagination. 

And so it came to pass that both Stark and the child were airborne and with winds as their wings they floated in descent, providentially averting the jagged rock protrusions.

 The Gods were indeed merciful to them on that day and after some while (of flight) they plunged unscathed into the fast-flowing depths of the frigid river.

Quickly recovering from the shock of the cold, Stark still clinging to the child, using all his might had swum upwards to clear the surface of the water. But despite his resolute effort to swim towards the bank, both he and the child had been wildly tossed about and swept far, far away by the maddening, churning currents of the river. 

In danger of drowning himself, Stark (all during this ordeal) had held the child tightly against his upper torso, pressing the child’s cheek against his, as he tried with concentrated effort to keep both their heads above rushing water.

 Inwardly his heart had been laden with concern and unwanted dread, for the infant’s vital signs appeared so weak, his conscious state tentative and hardly a sound, not even a gurgle, had emerged in a long while from the poor thing. Just then however, the most welcome piercing cry both assured and comforted Stark.  In the interim, the tears of gratitude that flowed down his cheeks quickly got wiped away by the foamy waters flailing against it.

Despite the loss of blood, he strove hard not to lose consciousness and steer his body towards the weaker currents, the eddies where they would stand a better chance of escaping the enormous falls, whose sound now roared in his ears. 

Succeeding in this task, Stark let himself be swept away by the secondary currents, their heads from time to time bobbing in an out of the foamy turbulence.  Had Stark not been a champion swimmer, he and the infant would have surely perished in the torrent.

Subsequently, they were carried over the lesser falls, escaping the main cataract, and dumped into a basin from which the river meandered onto more level ground.  Further expended energy enabled Stark to pull himself and the child to safety on the muddy bank of the river.

At once Stark set to binding his severed arm with strips cut from his undergarments and stopped the incessant bleeding.  No sooner had he completed this task than, already pale and seeing stars before his eyes, he’d collapsed against his will into a state of deep unconsciousness.

When he revived (regained his senses), it was already twilight.  Cast onto this deserted embankment, the child’s bawling was the only sound that interrupted the enveloping silence of the surrounding air. The eerie atmosphere, in fact, was quite unnerving, foreshadowing the ominous future.  Quickly pressing the famished, bawling infant to his chest for warmth, he’d allowed him to suck on his finger as he rose to survey the surroundings.

Casting his eyes on the sky above him, he saw at once that a severe storm was brewing.  There was no time to waste; he had to secure some form of shelter. 

He could barely make out some thatched roofs among tall trees beyond the surrounding soaring bulrushes and reeds that flanked the river on both sides.  Without a moment’s hesitation he delved into the thick vegetation, the child now secured at his back, pushing his way towards the thatch cottage where he hoped to acquire some information as to his whereabouts and obtain proper sustenance for the baby.  Racing to the spot, mindful of the impending storm, he paid scant attention to the stabbing pain of his legs, compounded further by the thrashing, slashing of the sharp edged, thorny undergrowth.  But he had underestimated the distance, for halfway there came a loud ‘Crack’ as the ominous sky tore open with crashing thunder. Just then another bolt of lightning found its mark, this time only a few yards away, bringing down an ancient tree which barely missed them in its fall.

All the while mounting demented winds tossed and thrashed the willow branches and Stark alike, making Stark quite unsteady on his feet.  ‘Crack, Crack’, again and again the air was repeatedly split by the peals of thunder and lightning bolts.

 Once more they were drenched, this time by torrential rains which instantly turned the ground under Stark’s feet into streams of mud.  Slipping and sliding, Stark relentlessly pushed on.  Eventually the rain tapered off, but the night which cast the earth into pitch darkness, with the moon hidden behind some persistent clouds, presented yet another hindrance to Stark’s advance.  Blindly, in part groping about, he led himself in the general direction of the thatched hut.  When he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, something furry brushed against his leg and nibbled at his feet.  Fortunately, a swift kick was all that was needed to scare it away.                                                                 

 “Would you be much longer uncle?” Svein’s sudden query snapped Stark from his trance.

“What?  Oh...no.  I’ve nearly finished,” Stark hastily responded.  “You go on ahead, Svein, I’ll be there presently.” 

As another bucket of water emptied over his head, Stark’s thoughts once more reverted to the past.

Overjoyed to learn that the region that the river had cast him out upon was near the border of one which rested under the authority of Lord Shonne Gulbrand, he had, from then on, pushed with renewed exuberance (zeal) towards the Lord’s country estate; this, after he had exchanged his rich garments with the local peasant’s in order to thwart any or undue suspicion along the way.

LORD SHONNE GULBRAND

Now, as he slowly dressed, Stark’s thoughts succinctly trailed over the countless hardships and obstacles he had endured and overcame before finally reaching his destination.  Recalling his old friend’s warm greeting and the kindness and support he had received, at the risk to Lord Shonne Gulbrand’s own family’s wellbeing and security, Stark’s eyes became moist once more with tears of gratitude and longing. Wiping them away, he slipped on his footwear and hastened towards the main cabin where a hot breakfast now awaited him.

                                                                                           ~

 

When the auspicious day finally arrived, in a proper wedding ceremony with Stark officiating as the master of ceremonies, Svein and Teuquob were duly married (enjoined).  After the newlyweds drank together from the paired goblet of matrimony, the three then sat down at the decorated table to partake of a kingly feast and rejoice together as one family.  That evening the cabin resounded with the cheerful sounds of laughter and merriment.

Now, Stark had never disclosed to Svein that Teuquob was of royal descent, lest Svein would feel unworthy of her and raise an objection to this union.  Teuquob, in accordance with Stark’s decision, had also maintained her silence.  Thus, it came about that it was long after this very night that Svein came to know of the truth, that on this very night he’d been wed to a beautiful princess.

At the appointed hour, on Stark’s discreet urging, the newly married couple blushingly withdrew to their specially prepared room to revel in matrimonial bliss, abandoning themselves to love and tender ecstasy. 

Loving Couple Svein and Tuquob

Stark had also retired shortly afterwards, carrying some wine with him to his room.  Enveloped in stillness he sat upon the bed, fully clothed, drinking without reserve with the peering moonlight falling through his windowsill, as his only company.

 For the first time in twenty years, he’d allowed himself the pleasure of letting go and falling into an inebriated stupor.  Gradually, however, as he emptied cup after cup, his happy state of mind gave way to one of loneliness, followed by one of deep despair.

 Unable to stop the welling tears, he wept as though his heart would break over Ivar Marrog Zhon ’s fate and the tragic loss of all those whom he had loved.

With his heart in the grip of this bitter desolation, his mind in desperation gave way to fantasy.

One by one they drifted before his mind’s eye; the lovely form of his beloved wife dressed in her favorite celadon laced brocade garment, carrying in her bosom their only son Ivar Marrog Zhon , a precious infant. How he’d loved him, how overjoyed he’d been at his birth!  He had such aspirations for Ivar Marrog Zhon.

Stark felt his heart would break into a million pieces. An enormous pain gripped his heart, such inexplicable sorrow surfaced anew to smother his conscience and soul. But he shook his head and determinedly checked his bursting emotions.   No, he must not grieve; to do so would infer that he regretted the actions he took!

Looking up, he asked forgiveness then, for his momentary lapsed sense, for his temporary weakness, and then uttered a silent heartfelt prayer for his son’s salvation and quick deliverance.

 After a time, to preserve his sanity, he strove to turn his thoughts to the joyful occasion at hand. He toasted to the newlywed’s wellbeing, whom he also loved very dearly and to their everlasting, blissful co-existence.

 But uninvited, (unsought,) once more his melancholy returned (resurfaced) and in his heart wrenching loneliness, now giving rein to fantasy, he envisioned his parents coming forth to greet him.

Stark's mother and father

His beloved (adapted) sister Ingrit, (also known as Arnora) and her husband, 7^th Prince Shon Alric Therran Valamir, and countless other relatives all, donning smiles and mouthing joyful rhetoric streamed in next, to extend their warm felicitations and congratulations to him.

They all came over in their ghostly form to visit him, filling the small room to the brim.  As they smiled and conversed gaily with him, echoing their familiar mannerisms, they appeared so real that, more than once, forgetting the truth, he’d stretch out his hand into the emptiness, to touch them. 

INGRIT (ARNORA) AND PRINCE SHON ALRIC THERRAN VALAMIR

Then the steward, appearing at the doorway, announced the arrival of his closest friends, and the family withdrew under various pretexts, leaving him to greet his friends with unrestricted familiarity.

Just as it had been in the past with their happy gatherings, they chatted and drank merrily, as if these last twenty years had never happened, with servants shuffling in and out of the room carrying more drinks, cups and trays filled with all manner of exquisite, choice dishes to delight their palate.

Suddenly Stark was in his favorite pavilion, amidst the breathtaking scenery.  Built at the foot of a majestic mountain, the Azure pavilion looked out onto an emerald lake whose tranquil ripples were etched in brilliant moonlight.  The fragrance of the exquisite flowers carefully planted around the pavilion drifted to assail his and his friend’s noses.

  In this placid atmosphere they conversed happily as they consumed (downed, drunk) cup after cup, not stopping until Stark’s eyes drooped in tiredness.  Now no longer able to carry on a straight conversation, he stumbled over his words, causing his guests to break into waves of laughter and jest; yet they were in no better a state than he.  Together they roiled in laughter till they felt their sides were splitting.

“Enough… ha, ha, ha… that’s enough!  Stop jesting, I can’t bear it any longer!”  Kunig, the youngest of the bunch, pleaded with them to stop with their antics, while clutching his kidney as he rolled himself into a ball.

“Gentlemen,” at this point the conscientious Lord Shonne Gulbrand suddenly rose to his feet to announce, “the hour has grown rather late, and I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”

Then, pointing to Stark, “Look, our host is tired.  Let us take our leave now and allow him some respite (to gain some rest).  If providence allows it, we will meet again in the not-too-distant future.”

“I would like to invite all of you to my country estate in three days’ time.  That is, if it’s agreeable to all.” Chion suddenly suggested, also rising to his feet.

“Excellent.”, all, nodding their heads, voiced their assent.  Then, rising to their feet, one by one they came over to bid Stark their farewells.

“Please don’t go, I’m all right, really! “Stark, blushing with shame, cried out within. He strove so hard to rise up, to detain them a while longer but, as if stymied by an invisible force, try as he might, to his great consternation he could neither lift his head from his pillow, nor could he part his lips to utter a single nuance of plea for them to stay.

 It was as though he had been struck down, crushed under tons of earth; all he could manage instead was to shed tears of regret at their parting, bearing the knowledge in his heart that they would never meet in this earthly domain again.

 

When the sun’s burning rays reached his eyes from the small opening of the window it woke him with a start.  He was greatly surprised to learn the lateness of the hour.  Despite the great heat, however, his head rested on comfortable coolness.

 Odd, how did my pillow get so drenched? He mused as he rose to his feet, forgetting his previous night’s sorrow. 

He hastily washed his face and hands, combed his hair, put on a clean set of garments, and then went out to greet the newlyweds, donning a broad smile and a cheerful face. 

That late morning the joy that Svein and Teuquob’s beaming faces brought to him was boundless and renewed his hope for a promising future.

 (END OF SECTION 7 – THE CONCLUSION OF BOOK 5, THE WEDDING)