63rd Day | 38th Year of Onyonkapom | Kingdom of Eyjavo | The Grand Plains of the Middle
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A battalion of red charges at King Regele Mansomi the II, staff of raging fire hoisted over their heads. Amongst the cacophony of noises an army of voices raise a single chant. “Off with your head, demon, off with your head!”
Regele chuckles to himself, ‘that's the Kaloan army alright’. Kaloans, considered the holiest tribe amongst Eyjavo’s scattered sixteen, would never miss a chance to proclaim their adversary a demon and prosecute them in the name of ‘purification’. Only, in Regele’s case, they might have actually been right. But Regele never thought the tribe he trusted the most – his wife's tribe, the tribe he adored – would stab him in the back in such a fashion.
“What shall I use?” King Regele asks himself, or rather, to the voice that sits within.
“The army charges at you with staffs of fire. It'd be kind of poetic if you bested this treacherous army with a weapon similar to their own,” muses the inner voice. Use the burning spear . . . and do it right this time, kid.”
“Hey! I messed up just once during training, okay. And kid?” King Regele scoffs. “You know you're the only one who's called me that in my life. Even as a child, no one ever talked down to me so.”
“Really?” The voice asks, bemused. “Well then, I must again be the one to teach you so. It is good for a king to be knocked down a peg or two once in a while.”
The king chuckles at this. “True,” he says, “then keep doing so. I'll be in your care, teacher.”
“Draw the spear already.” Says the voice within, doing a mental eye roll.
“You got it,” Regele says, plunging his right hand into the sac laden at his feet. What emerges along with his hand is a weapon of utter brilliance. A shaft made of red, gleaming metal which was soft on hold but rock hard on impact. Regele spent countless hours pondering on its miraculous existence. The neck: gilded with strings of twisted rope – made of the same metal – was further adorned by two stones on each side; one fiery red and the other amber gold. And at the very top was the spearhead, a blade that made the weapon an utter brilliance, a work of peak craftsmanship, absolute art. The very design of it was that of fire. He was told, from the voice within, that it could burn for days, months or even years, yet every time Regele touched it the blade felt as cool as winter.
“Off with your head, demon, off with your head!” The chants grow louder, nearer; the battalion is almost upon him. Changing hands with the spear, Regele hit the earth with it twice, and each time a fire of greater height rose from the blade. Regele was once warmed by the voice within to never beat the earth with it six times—he wished to try it today. “Aaaa!” Screamed the army, still charging at him.
Beating the earth once more raised the flames twenty meters into the sky, and with it Regele swung—a horizontal slash. That was all it took to reduce the hundred man army by half, half their bodies that is. The leg-only army stood for a minute more before toppling down like a stack of bamboo cards.
Happy with the results, Regele stood chest puffed, proudly appreciating the vividly hellish landscape of the battlefield before him. A devilish smile stretches across his face, however, and he hits the ground twice further. A tower of raging fire extends from the spearhead, the top of which extends beyond the clouds. The flames dance over his head, burning with a vengeance. The patch of green around him has evaporated by the blazing heat alone, yet he stands as cool as a Mid-year breeze.
“Don't do it, you fool.” The voice within him cries. "The fire you unleash will be Hell’s fire.”
The warning has an opposite effect, however, and feeling more edged on by the restriction, he makes a show of thrusting the spear into the earth. ‘Burn’ he thinks as he sees another battalion of his once trusted tribe rush to him with staffs of ember.
Pffff
With a puny cry the spear whizzes out of his hand, crumbling into ash and flying off into the smoke around him.
“Ahahahah,” roars the voice within him. “You thought that I would allow you to call forth the ever burning fire of Hell?” The voice roars in laughter. "I'd been told men are weak of conviction when in lust, I'm glad I got to see that for myself today. Be grateful that I gave you a weapon of my own, if only for a while.” With that the voice inside him vanished, and for the very first time Regele felt a profound sense of loss within himself, his legs wobbling under him, threatening to give out.
He looked left, then right, none were his allies. A fresh battalion of troops charged towards him, rejuvenated by his now frail state. They chanted their curses at him with fresh vigor. “Demon, off with your head, demon.” Regele’s shoulders sagged, this might be his end.
“Your Majesty,” shouts came in from behind, a voice he knew. Regele turned to see the whole of his king's guard charging to him, the banner of the Royal Mansomi waving behind them.
“I thought I ordered you all not to come,” says Regele, his voice a howl, not a shadow of his previous vigor left within.
“I saw the pillar of fire whizzing out and thought you had exhausted your source,” says the head of his king's guard, the stony faced Tullark, only now his face gleamed with emotion. “I am sorry for defying orders, my king, and if you wish it you may cut my head off. I only request you to do it after the war is won.”
“Then I must raise your head by a title first, for coming to this arrogant king's aide when he needed it the most, but knew not how to call for it.”
The king's guard smiles, raises his sword against the incoming army, and calls for his brothers to raise their shields. A softly glowing blue bubble of energy forms around them, shrouding them in a veil of protection. The king falls back into the center, and his head king's guard takes his place at the front. He then pokes the front of the bubble with his sword and it changes shape with it, now a pointy bubble. With the formation complete, they charge, running through the heated wasteland right at their battalion of enemies.
. . .
The war is over, and the king has won.
In his empty throne room, at the center of an expanded runic construction, he sits cross-legged, gently rocking back and forth and contemplating the complex runic patterns being drawn before him. His most trusted Circle of Sorcerers circle him, quietly completing the pattern he sits on. “It is almost done, Your Majesty,” assures Agnes Kaun, the chief of his Warlocks.
“Take your time,” the King says, he's in no hurry. “Best not mess up the array in your haste.”
“Never!” gasps Agnes, looking hurt, “I would never put Your Majesty in harms way. And besides, the exorcism demands extreme precision. It was the summoning that was the easy part.”
The king nods graciously at this, takes a deep breath, and dives inward. “I guess this is farewell, old friend.”
“Old for you, but a mere speck of time for me,” says the voice within, "but fret not. Receive solace in the fact that we might reunite sooner than you thought.” The king laughs at this, a sad laugh. His cackles descend into coughs, blood red wheezes of phlem come out of him in knots. A year of possession has taken a lifetime away from him. His body grows frailer by the moment, and he would most probably pass away moments after the extraction is completed. So he had his extensive family brought together and near. His successor was already chosen and sat in the room next door. The boy was much trained in the art of ruling, but the dying King had held him close and imparted some last minute wisdom onto his son. Especially wisdom he came onto in his tumultuous last year of life. And he'd told his son to hold that wisdom closer than what he was taught.
"My friend, do not misunderstand me. Your death saddens me too,” says the inner voice, "but death holds a different meaning to me, and what I see happening to you is but the passing from one plane of existence into another. So I may appear less distraught than what you wish to see of me. But I also wish to relieve your worries, enlighten your mood. So I wish to offer you a parting gift as I go.”
“What is it?” The king inquires.
"Your body was not a fit vessel for me, hence you rot away so,” explained the voice within, the verbal jab hurting him more, "but if you agree to it, I might come to your predecessors, generation after generation, and mold your lineage, so that when the time comes, and your descendants call upon me, I may find myself in a vessel more suited to accept me.”
The king looks to his Head Sorcerer, consults him with the contents of the offer. Upon hearing, the Sorcerer grows wide with greed—greed of the intellect.
“If Your Majesty would allow it, I would like to enter into a stasis with the entity within you, through you. And with its help, I might be able to fashion a spell of the old tongue that your predecessors may call upon in times of extreme distress. But I must warn you, Your Majesty will most certainly die if we do this.”
The tired old King smiles, closes his eyes, and tells his head Sorcerer to wait. He dives within completely, losing himself within his soul. He lands on a sight he thought he'd never get to see again. He stands up, a little sideways, on a meadow of fresh scented grass. Below him, and before him lies the climb of a low hill, at the tip of which sits an old Olansa tree, its huge spreading branches red with leaves. He trudges up this hill, to his old friend; a hazy spectral form of blue. Grunting in his own corporeal form, he sits across from his old friend. “What do you think?” He asks.
"Your head Magician is green with greed, and what he speaks of will most likely sap whatever life force you have left within you.” informs the old friend. The king looks down, his mouth quivers a little. But then he inhales, quite visibly, exhales slowly and looks up, a small smile painting his face. The dancing flames around his spectral form cools down to waving blue embers, and he continues. “However, it makes no difference. Your head Magician is a loyal subject. And even if his loyalty were to be momentarily lost in his greed of intellect, you are meant to pass away soon anyway. At least this way I'd be able to help the fool fashion something that can be embedded into your bloodline.
"So that when their bodies give way and their bones shiver. This song of old may escape their soul, and cry to their ever present friend of old.”
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55th Day | 527th Year of Hogumpen | The Kingdom of Guella | Present Day
Amani:
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I wake with a start, my head splits with hurt. What's up with these dreams? It's been years since I last read these histories, years since I last dug my nose into the histories of my forefather, imagining myself in their shoes, and playing their characters with my little brother.
“Are you hurting anywhere, princess?” Says a melodic voice. My eyes almost tear up at that voice, it's been so long since I heard it that I almost forgot it. I open my eyes to the sweet face of Arsha, looming at the foot of my bed, brows drawn in concern.
“Just help me up, will you?” I say, extending my hand. She takes it, helps me up, leans me over the headrest of my bed, and sits by me, examining my hand, then head.
“I hear Rism tea helps,” Aunt Cass says, coming over with tea in hand. What better care could one ask for? “I thought I wasn't supposed to be allowed the princess treatment on my Soul Voyage.” I say, more playfully than anything else.
“You are not,” they say in unison. “I am simply taking care of my best companion.” Arsha says.
“And I, my best mentee,” says Aunt Cass, pulling a chair to my other side. With gratitude I take the cup from her hand, sip on it. The refreshing smell of Rism helps clear my foggy head and a gentle warmth soon begins to branch through my body. What a way to start the day.
“Khwack!” Cough cough
My nose and throat burn, but their pain is underwhelming compared to the striking bell in my head.
“What is it?” Aunt Cass jolts up in panic, “is it too hot? Does it taste bad? I was sure I blew on it before giving it to you.”
I try to raise my hand to stop her but my hand shoots up to my aching temples instead. Rubbing it doesn't do shit, so I sit up, get off the bed. Both Arsha and Aunt charge at me, but I manage to keep them at bay. Somehow, I raise my hands, “It's okay, just a mild headache.” I lie.
“Top of the morning, Nikarbrains!” The door bashes open, Omar barges in, turns on his heels and exits, banging the door shut behind him. “Sorry, forgot.” comes his voice from beyond the door.
Arsha face-palms, “forgive him, my little brother has had a line hook stuck in his brain ever since the day he was born.”
Knock knock
“Get dressed and meet us downstairs, we have plans to discuss.” Uncle Mal says from behind the door. “Oh, and, the nikerbrain is buying us breakfast. So y'all better hurry!” I hear Omar groan from the other side and we laugh. The headache seems to have alleviated a little. I pray it stays that way.
. . .
Dressed in local attire, we head downstairs. “Miss Amani?” calls a small, soft voice. I look up from my careful steps to see a little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Sir Malova has sent me to help you to your seats.” she says, motioning to the right. We follow quietly behind.
Passing through the pearl white, swirly designs of the common room we enter through gates of perch wood etched with the decorated remains of the original thirteen structures made of Gidone, a national landmark, marked internationally in the Book of Seven Spectacles Around the World. These doors open to a barrage of fresh scents of spices that help permeate through the fog in my mind, a little at least.
“Morabban, morabban, esteemed guests.” Greets a waiter, dressed in what Guella thinks people abroad wear. The little girl goes up to him, whispers in his ears, and turning to us, bows and disappears. The waiter then turns to me, “Miss Amani,” he says, a gentle smile displayed on his face, “Sir Malova has informed me that you would be arriving soon. Please, follow me.” Saying this, he turns on his heels, leading the way with his practiced footsteps. So we follow again, dancing amongst a maze of distinctly different looking people.
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“Hey guys, over here!” Waves Uncle Mal. Beside him sits Omar, holding an extra large menu to his face. The waiter sits us down, and disappears, saying he'll fetch us some more menus.
Sigh
“Omar,” I call out, “it's fine. I understand that it was a mistake.” The menu drops and I see him smiling behind it. “But that doesn't excuse you from facing your consequesnces.” His smile drops.
“The menus,” the waiter, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, plops them down in front of us. But placing them down he just stands there, staring at us.
Slowly, everyone bgins ordering one by one, and eventually I am the only one who's left to order. “Do you guys have the Kibat and Ufti?” I ask. The waiter nods and promptly clears the table off our menus.
Snap
A silence settles amongst us as the waiter shuffles out of earshot. “Uncle, the sound bubble?” I say.
“Already done, Princess Amani.”
We huddle in closer to each other, as if that'll help muffle our voices more than what the Tullarkian techniques can achieve. In the growing silence of the bubble, Uncle Mal still talks quieter. “Ahayan came by this morning with a message. He says the City Lord is back in his estate, but has denied seeing anyone as of yet.”
“The new City Lord is an ass. What are we to do?” asks Arsha.
“Break into the place, I say,” says Omar, sitting up, a gleeful expression painting his face.
“You're a City Guard squad captain, you dumbass. You're supposed to protect the City Lord, not jeopardize him further.” Arsha says, scoffing. We chuckle, Omar scowls. Turning to us, Arsha continues, “I think the only viable option left to us is to call on our relatives in the capital. I mean, they are high ranking nobles, so getting a simple City Lord to comply should be easy enough for them.”
“No, that'd take too long.” says Aunt Cass, resting her chin on her hand, thinking hard.
Oddly enough, “I agree with Omar on this.” I say. They all look at me, shocked at me agreeing with Omar for once, I presume. “Be assertive if you want them to hear,” I say, citing my mentor. Their blank looks, however, prompts me to elaborate further. “Look, I'm not saying that we should charge in, weapons wielding or something like that, but we should at least show up and demand what he owes us.”
“Haha! Finally, you're speaking my language, Princess.” Omar bounces up, giddy with excitement.
“Omar, sit your ass back down!” yells Arsha, noticing the people around us staring. Pouting, Omar sits back down, his tongue sticking out, mocking his sister.
Snap
Pop
“Your food,” the waiter says, popping out of nowhere again. He sets two plates down in front of me, says, “Kibat and Ufti for Miss.” Two more waiters follow suit and plop down the other’s plates. Dishes of every color decorate our table and delicious scents of spices infiltrate my mind, helping alleviate some of the fog clogging it.
A peaceful silence falls amongst us as we munch on our food in silence, a silent appreciation of food we adopted through our hard experiences. Breaking into the City Lord's estate can wait until we're done gorging.
. . .
Outside in the common room a little lad stands waiting by the couch. Seeing us enter, he raises and comes over to us. “Good morning, Esteemed Guests of the State,” says little Ahayan from yesterday, bowing to us at the main hall of the reception room.
Omar pushes past, goes to him. “There's my boy!” He says, ruffling his hair. “How're you doing, bud?” He bends down to his level, and the kid smiles back, says he's fine, and follows up on a query about Omar's health. “How’s your father doing, kid? I heard things got pretty heated up at the intersection yesterday.”
The kid looks up, gives me a quick once over before returning his gaze to Omar. “Yes, Mr. Omar, my father is doing just fine.” he finishes, smiling a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He then bows again at Omar, steps back and addresses all of us. “State Steward Abbas has sent me to help escort our esteemed guests for the day. I'll be waiting outside whenever you're ready,” says the kid, excusing himself to go wait outside while we gather ourselves.
“I might’ve been a little too hard on the guy yesterday,” Aunt Cass says under her breath as she starts walking back up, saying she's going to fetch us our packs for the day.
Omar stands back up, walks over to me with a pointed stare. “Don’t tell me, you were the one who gave Old Abbas a hard time yesterday?” he asks, admonition prevalent in his voice.
I don't like the accusing tone in his voice. Getting scolded by Omar out of everyone feels ludicrous to me, “It wasn't just me there,” I say, turning around to find no one. The tail of a trailing robe is all I see. There's only me, Omar and Arsha left in the lobby. Arsha’s staring at me accusingly too, shaking her head. I sigh, turning away.
“No, not old man Abbas. He’s one of the best officials this city has got,” says Arsha, brows drawn, “I'm sorry, Miss Amani, but I agree with my brother on this one. The guy works harder and more diligently than anyone else in this city.”
I turn back to them, raise my hands, palms upright. “Okay, okay. I get it, I get it. I’ll apologize to the man the next time I see him.”
“Ahha, kids. Don't pester her so, I was at fault too.” says Uncle Mal, coming back down, my ‘knight in shining’.
“Don't you have to be at your job?” I ask Omar. He just shrugs, says he's taken a day off.
Thud
A literally overbearing Aunt Cass descends down the stairs, clutching five small haqiba bags close to her chest. She tosses one to each of us, it contains our usual travel gear. Always keeping ready a small bag of essentials was drilled into us by the experiences of our long travels. And I'm glad to see that a few months of rest hasn't corrupted my companions' basic travel senses.
From Arsha’s bag she retrieves a frobe. “Oh shi, I forgot to get one.” I say looking at Arsha. A slow smile spreads across her face as she retrieves two more frobes, throwing me one and then Aunt Cass one. Omar does the same for Uncle Mal.
And so, with our bags slung across our backs, and ethereal white frobes protecting our hides we head outside.
Fresh rays of light bathe me in waves of heat, and I shield my eyes against its assault. Squinting in the blinding light, I look around, spotting little Ahayan standing by a carriage, talking to the carriage driver.
“Over here,” he yells once he sees us, beckoning us over. The carriage driver, stepping around him, swings open the cab door of the carriage and I hobble over, Aunt and Uncle right behind me.
Diving into the carriage I breathe a sigh of relief, the brief jog has sapped the water right out of me. I guess I need more time to readjust to Guella’s heat.
“Palm it on.” I hear Ahayan’s forced deep voice instruct from the outside. A body shuffles to the front, and I feel a small push coming from the front.
*ZING*
A slow rumble permeates through the whole cabin before I gasp, feeling goosebumps rise across the skin of my arm, quite literally. A small shower of hail starts sprinkling from above as I feel the temperature slowly descend into coolness.
“A small apology from The State.” Says Ahayan, poking his little head inside the cab and smiling at us.
“You mean a small gift from your old man.” corrects Omar from behind Ahayan, clapping him on the back. His small clap, however, almost sends the little boy tumbling into the cab.
“You give us too much credit, Mr. Omar.” Ahayan says, moving off the doorway. Backing away, he gestures for the siblings to get on, but Omar picks him up and tosses him in before getting in himself, Arsha following suit.
Bump bump
The carriage shakes like a cradle as we ride along. Omar, Uncle Mal, and little Ahayan are comfortably seated across from us, engaged in a lively conversation about the changes in Ja’na; the negatives, the positives, the whole of it. Over on our side we'd been talking too, but I'd strained my ears to listen in on theirs. Little Ahayan, corroborated with Omar's insights, explained how Guella’s gates were closed to the outside because the wandering tribes of Fa'ad had proclaimed it to be. One day, the Koshwa tribe’s chieftain shahanama had cried the warning out to the king, saying he got one of his Jinns to go up to the upper skies and hear the news from the creatures speaking of it there. Omar scoffs at Ahayan, but seeing the little boy's expression drop he corrects his tone right away, says, “The wandering tribes of Fa'ad should not be believed. Most of their sayings are ploys in the name of their kingdom.”
I remember the history of Fa'ad quite vividly, in part thanks to the energetic lessons of my tutor, the Duke. Fa'ad was the neighboring country, due west. It lay between the Kingdoms of Eyjavo and Guella. A vast barren, desert country now; its former glory burned down in an almost apocalyptic display of meteoritic downfall in the great partition wars. The country's downfall had effectively served as the most poignant display of destruction that awaited the other warring countries, if they were stubborn enough to go on with the neverending wars. And so it was this ugly display that helped calm the raging fires of war, and helped establish this somewhat quiet peace amongst them.
Uncle Mal, saying nothing, moves his head right, catching me in the act. “Since you’re already eavesdropped, Miss Amani,” he says, “would you like to imbue some of your great insights into this conversation?”
“Ahaha,” laughing awkwardly, I turn to them. Aunt Cass and Arsha quiet down, and stare on curiously. “What you're implying, Ahayan, is that the City Lord is going to be hard on us just because of this ‘prophecy’ as you say it?” Ahayan nods. “Well then, I say that we give this guy a chance first, speak logically to him, and if he still remains uncooperative to us, then we use whatever means necessary to extract our due payment from him. All little Ahayan over here needs to do is secure us a meeting with this aloof guy.”
“Whatever means necessary sounds good to me,” Omar says, much to Ahayan's dismay. He passes it off with the kid as a joke, but turning to me, winks most knowingly. I sigh, shaking my head at him, he always treats serious situations like they're a joke. I, on the other hand, don't plan to be branded a three star criminal in the whole of Guella just for a few measly bags of coins, no matter how many coins each bag might possess.
The waddling carriage abruptly comes to a stop a few minutes later, and Ahayan jerks into action. He slips out the carriage with haste, and in his haste forgets to shut the door behind him. The sudden shafts of light penetrate the womb of the cab with a fiery vengeance. The whole of the cab's interior glows with life until Aunt Cass slams the door shut.
An extended time passes by and we sit in silence. I try to reach the outside with my sense spread but the low humming of the cab restricts the voices from the outside.
Shuffle shuffle
Slide
The small window connecting the cab to the carriage driver slides open, and through it Ahayan’s little hazel eyes poke into the inside. “The City Lord will see us now,” he says, and the carriage resumes its waddle across the pavement, only smoother this time.
Getting off the carriage the first thing I notice, apart from little Ahayan offering us his little hand like a gentleman, is the immense shade of the sprawling architecture of the Lord's Estate. Surely it wasn’t this big when I had last laid my eyes on it, from across the street.
Set against the vast, cracked expanse of the thirsty barren flats, stood the multi-storey, sprawling manor. Starkly charcoal black in contrast to the background, it relished in its brutalist architecture. The jagged spikes of its outline thrust into the air around it with a brutalistic accuracy, as if warning the very air from entering it. Only the caged contraption on the left of the entrance was allowed some semblance of softness, an eight by six coffin of cushion. Behind me the carriage rolled away, expertly guided by a burly guard.
At the steely black gates we are asked, with due courtesy, to submit our weapons before entering the premises, and so we did. A mist katana, hail halberd, army sword, flametongue dagger, and a pair of lava gauntlets sat tinkling in the ironclad collection vase, raising the value of the vase up to a fortune.
“This way please,” says the head maid as she guides us. We cross architecture of dark grandeur, spaces of minimal lights highlighting the rigid structure in its harsh but pure beauty. We climb up four storeys before finally standing in front of a ruby encrusted door, guarded by heavily and magically armed guards. The head maid nods politely at them, and the red feather helmed guards gives way as the door behind him opens to an antechamber. Silently, we pass through, one of the guards offering the head maid a curt nod before closing the doors behind us. Inside, the antechamber was, surprisingly, of round opulence, as if finally offering the comfort of softness to those courageous enough to come this far, or to those valued enough to be provided such luxuries. And even though the decor of the chamber was leagues removed from the best I'd seen, it still pleased me to again be exposed to such luxury, especially after three straight months of the rugged outdoors.
“Lillova . . . *muffled speech* . . . not in my city!”
A single, loud clang cried from the room beyond. The head maid, standing in attention by the inner door, opened it with a practiced grace, ushering us in with a ‘please’ and a swirling wave of her hand. And so we went.
The room, in all its gothic glory, shone with all the pointed menace and rugged accuracy of a funeral home. Now, I'm sure the space was big enough for most, if not all, but in light of the dozen or so of us that filed into the audience side of the room, it felt rather suffocating standing there shoulder to shoulder. Even little Ahayan had come in after us, against all proper advice. The Lord, barely hiding his malice behind cross clamped fists, analyzed each of us in turn, his void black pupils resting on Ahayan for a second longer. And even though he did not say anything I could tell that he was saving that for later. Finally he spoke.
“Welcome, guests of the State. Peace be unto you,” he said, his voice tearing through the air like a thousand incised blades. “Which of you represents the whole of you?”
Silently, I step forth, and taking a seat opposite to him, say. “We’re here to clear our due payment from you.”
His brows raise. “Ah, cutting straight to the point. I appreciate it.” He reaches for his drawer, and is about to slide it open when a form rises out of the shadow.
“Yahmil,” croaks the shadow, and going right up to him it bends to whisper in his left ear. The State Lord nods, slides the drawer back in. Grunting its thanks the shadow recedes back. An audible scoffing huff leaves Aunt Cass, and I begin to turn to her but before I can I hear Uncle Mal quietly hushing her behind me. I thank him internally and readjust my entire focus on the imposing Lord before me.
The City Lord again turns to us, his hardened eyes harder still. “Do not worry, helpers of the country, your work is appreciated, and you will be duly compensated.”
“But?” I ask.
A small, surprising smile breaks out on the City Lord's stony face. He sighs, turns, and beckons the shadow up to him again. The shadow comes forth, and emerges out of the veil of darkness. What I had thought to be a leaning form turns out to just have been a stocky build. A pair of heavy rugged hands jut out of the sleeves to lift off the head of the black frobe, and a man of grey hair and hardened eyes is revealed. While his eyes were not as cold as the Lord's, they were harder still, like the base of a great burning pyre. The Lord speaks in his crackling voice, only a tad softer now, “This here is my old friend. The captain of the Shah's Army, the conqueror of Blood-field, and finally, most impressive of all, the man who got my sister to finally settle down; The Marquis Istifak Bin Ibnat. Tell him why you’re here, Marquis.”
The Marquis clears his throat quite forcefully, trying to hide an equally small smile spreading across his hardened face. “Thank you, Lord, for fluffing up my name more than your sister does her face when we go out for a banquet,” the Marquis says, smiling, and try he may the Lord also could not hold back a small smile---we smile with them. The looming Marquis then turns to us completely, his face serious again. “Now, guests of the State and helpers of the country, the reason I was sent to this borderland along with the City Lord by the Shah is of two folds, only one of which has to do with you guys. And even though I was ordered not to speak to you directly, I will, in the spirit of equal generosity. So I hope you will hear me out without interference,” he says this while pointedly looking at Aunt Cass, “and I will ingratiate you by answering any questions you may have at the end.”
“Alright,” says Aunt Cass, sighing. “I'll behave. Go ahead.”
“As you know,” he begins, “the war between Lillova and Amanova is worsening by the day.” We nod, he continues. “Half a Jama'ah back the chieftain of the Koshwa tribe, the greatest of the tribes of the wandering tribes of Fa'ad, came to the king with a warning.”
“You only say they're the best because they've only been good to the Guellan court. They're a true menace in their own lands.” Omar interjects. The Marquis, as if for the very first time, looks at him properly and is duly shocked at what he beholds. The City Lord says something to him quietly and he nods in understanding. Giving Omar a last glare for the unwelcome interjection, he continues.
“He said, ‘The northern winds are burning, and the flames of Hell are descending upon the lands of Lillova and Amanova.’ The chieftain’s then expressed his advice for us--to look after our own.”
From behind me I hear Aunt Cass sigh sadly. “Not this shit again,” she says under her breath. But Uncle Mal, apparently understanding the flow of conversation better than I, does not stop her this time.
“So?” I ask, knowing I might come off as being naive.
A sympathetic smile crosses the burly man's features before he quietly says, “We must refuse the refugees you brought with you.”
‘No!’
I should have said that, or something similar in denial, but in this moment all my mind was occupied with were the images of a refugee camp finally happy with their settlement, images of a camp Elder pleading me to make their life more stable, and images of the eyes of a sobbing rocking girl finally wide with amazement and hopeful with the new chances of a new land. “No,” I whisper quietly.
“I understand, Miss.” The Marquis says this with the utmost level of sympathy and understanding he can, I'm sure, but it's not nearly enough. My head resumes with its irritating pain, and I feel a burning behind my eyes. A silent rage start growing within me.
“The wandering tribes of Fa'ad should never be believed." Omar persists, "Most of their sayings are ploys in the name of their kingdom.” He repeats this to the Marquis.
“I do not understand this sentiment, but from what I've seen and heard about the tribe I can most confidently say they're people deserving of the praise I bestow upon them. Try not to defame them without proof, son, not in front of me at least.” Again the Marquis says this with utmost sympathy, but now with a tinge of pride. But I also know where Omar is coming from, where we are coming from. The Marquis may have gathered information from trusted sources, but we've dealt with the dark side of Fa'ad, been hit by their fury, on multiple accounts, the whole of Eyjavo has, since the days of the Partition Wars.
“With due respect sir,” Omar pushes on, “you may have heard about them but we have dealt with them first hand, and they're not even half as good as you credit them to be. Bastards and cowards, the whole lot of them.” Says Omar, supported by Aunt Cass. I hear Aunt Cass begin to tell her account when the Marquis, his face betraying his anger, clears his throat to interject.
“Whatever it is,” says the City Lord, effectively wedging himself in as a third party, “Guella cannot provide sanctuary to refugees at this moment.” He says this matter of factly, but I keep nodding my head in the no nevertheless. “I do not care what you do with them but we cannot receive them right now. You guys will be paid in full and I would pay you extra to take the refugees along with you so that we do not have to throw the poor souls back out into the wars of the Ovas again.” Saying this he begins to slide his side drawer open, as if the matter is finished.
“NO!” I yell, shooting straight up. I slam my hand onto the table before me so hard that it shakes. The City Lord, eyes wide, glares up at me, his eyes growing colder. But I do not budge, will not budge. “You WILL take them in, and you will give them sanctuary.” I say, my voice rising in tandem to my rage. “They will not be made to suffer again, to have to travel through the harsh lands of Fa'ad to God knows where.”
“Dear Miss,” the Marquis coos now, “we understand the pain you're feeling, they're feeling, but our hands are tied right now. We are simply the enforcers, the decision lies with the Shah. Convince him otherwise and we have no problem with it.” he says, his hand resting on the City Lord's shoulder.
Uncle Mal places a hand on my shoulder and I visibly relax a little. He comes forth, stands beside me, and says in his deep rumbling voice. “I think we all need to take a step back, reel in the anger a little.” Saying this, he gently pushes me down into my seat. I sit, ramrod straight, so that I can jump right back up when needed to. “I think what Miss Amani is trying to convey to you is that we've grown very sympathetic to the plights of the refugees. So much so that we’d even agree to a pay cut if that will allow them to just huddle in a remote corner of your City.”
Brows pulled up in confusion, the Marquis begins, “But the-”
“Old man, speak to me of my lands, not to my brother in law.” growls the City Lord. “These are my lands, my property, and I shall run it how I deem fit. And I deem it fit for all of you to get the fuck off my property.”
“Motherf-”
SWISH
THUD
“Put the spells away, boy,” warns the Marquis, his rugged stumpy hand clasping shut Omar’s hand in mid air. Finding Omar unwilling to follow, he slams his fist into the table below with a loud thwack, snuffing out the yet forming spell. He then releases Omar, spreads his hands wide, blocking the menacing stare I hold with the City Lord. “Look,” he says, “this truly is out of our hands now. We, no, our Shah will not ignore the chieftains words, and why should he when the chieftain has never been wrong before? He says we will be engulfed in the flames of Hell if we do not close our borders and so we shall close those borders. No foreigners allowed.”
I see red again. This talk of the scam chieftain aggravates the throbbing pain in my head. Grinding my teeth I stand up, ready for a final proclamation. Words I know not trickle into my mind and I slowly begin to grow numb, as if I'm out of my body and my mouth runs on its own accord.
BZZT. THZZ.
“I'll give you another prophecy, and this one will be true.” I yell, my voice booming unnaturally in the tiny black room. “If you do not give them sanctuary, I WILL BRING DOWN THE FIRES OF HELL ON TOP OF YOU.”
“HAH,” shouts the City lord, shooting back up. “I'D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY, LITTLE GIRL.”
“SO BE IT!” I yell, chopping my hand through the air. “JAHANNAMA AAG.”
VTOOM!