Chapter
Thirteen
Dalrosse
in the Demense of the Red Rose
Dalrosse still
struggled to free himself his bonds, tied to stake that held his hands and feet
and left by watchmen of the Demense to die in the desert between the
mountains. A crow flew upon his
shoulder and to Dalrosse’s utter surprise it spoke to him.
“Hold still and
stop muttering to yourself. You’ll
never get out of there on your own.”
“Who the nak are
you?”
“I’m The Crow. I leave you for five minutes and look at the
mess you’re in.”
“Have we met
before? I’m sure I would remember a
talking crow.”
“Yes, we met o ages
ago, before, er…well before. You
probably wouldn’t remember as it was a long time ago.
“Now
stop struggling. Look, those rocks are
more jagged. You might be able to prise
open some of the links in the chain.
You’ve been out here too long in the sun Dalrosse. You’ve hardly eaten since you left
Soen. We must get you under the shades
of the Red Rose. Prise two links out
around the manacles and kick the stake from the ground. You can do it, I know you can my, my friend…I
mean you…are very strong in mind and spirit but your body needs
nourishment. The power of your heart is
weak as you don’t know if you are on the right road and you think you must
search instead for your family. You
know you are going on a long journey.
You can’t do anything to change their fate. Know that you do go the right way and your
task is true.”
“There,
that didn’t take long. Quick, follow
me.”
Without
knowing where, his strength was instinctive as he prised open two links and
slowly, bound by feet and hand, he was set free from his prison in the acrid
lands by the mines of The Demense of The Red Rose. He was exhausted, and still bleeding from the
beating from the soldiers, who had captured him, as he emerged from the passage
through the mountains of Paillion into The Demense.
The
Crow flew at his shoulder, conversationally, through the rocks and along the
path that led finally to the crimson shade of The Red Rose.
Lifting
on his wings Crow could see two soldiers ahead.
“Quick,
get behind those gorse bushes. I’ll go
and find you food. If I’m not mistaken,
there will be some rain soon so you can get water. I’ll go and find you help to remove your
bonds.’
Before
long the rain began to fall. At first,
a slight drizzle, that refreshed his face, by increments, the air was filled
with a deluge of sweet rain. He opened
his mouth to the rain and each mouthful was a delight. He heard the two guards pass by and noisily he slurped the water from the
quickly filling pools and rivulets in the ground around him. Before long the Crow returned with a crust
of bread in his beak. It wasn’t much
but Dalrosse thanked him profusely.
***
Beside the Manor
House, the Bede was tending the vegetable patch. He muttered to himself.
“The weeds are so
over-run this time of the year.” He
pondered wistfully to himself and for a few moments more he pottered about, cut
some flowers for his bedchamber and took the gardening gloves from his thin,
pale pristine hands.
Labourers were dotted
about the fields, naked, sunburnt, and calmly working away. The Dew bell rang and the Bede watched them
stop for their well earned refreshments, thorn soup and a thimble full of the
Rose’s dew. The Bede then shuffled into
the Manor House in time to avoid the first of the storm.
So tired, he
thought, wiping his brow. He ordered
the singing maid to sing a calming song and yet he bored of it quickly and made
his way to his bedchamber and put the flowers in water. Marayela, another of his maids, came into
the room and uttered meekly.
“The keeper has
brought you this Bede. It is Red Rose
distillate for your enjoyment. Can I be
of anymore assistance,” she asked.
“No, I have worked
in the garden today and I am exhausted.
Come back later when I am refreshed.”
Bede drank the
distillate. He lay gently on the bed
and lit two Red Rose petals into a hazy flame.
He could still hear the song maid trilling like a lark.
Marayela left the
Manor House, half naked, her long curls swimming down her back and
shoulders. She ran into the rain. The fieldworkers toiled in the downpour of
the storm. She was bright eyed after
drinking just a small sip of the distillate and felt euphoric as her bare feet
danced over the puddles on the road towards her dwelling.
The Bede would
sleep all day, maybe until tomorrow afternoon.
His cold pale fingers would not touch her tonight
It seemed as she ran that she was arching
upward into the dull sky. Her bronze
body was like a torch burning away the rain with her fire. Yet with the rain a new nakedness covered
her, androgynous, an instant stripping of her fleshy beauty. In the raging cloud and storm she had become
like a rainbow as she flew into the scarlet shade of the Red Rose.
Below Marayela saw a small creature being fed
bread by a crow. She laughed at the
delight of such a sight. Slowly the
brief euphoria of the distillate receded and she was on the road, drenched, as
she walked towards them, her intense blue-black eyes staring at the strange
creature.
Although small in stature, the creature
appeared old. An aura of time
surrounded him, like a flash of green.
Thunder raged in the storm. Then,
as if it had never been here, the rain stopped. She watched as he greedily drank from the
puddles of fresh water. The Crow was
sitting on a rock. As she walked
towards him she saw how tattered and ragged, and covered with blood, he
was. Filled with sympathy for the
stranger, she ran towards them. In
alarm the Crow croaked and the man, or boy, or whatever he was ran behind some
long grass.
She walked slowly, gently whispering that she
could help them. Dalrosse stood,
refreshed by the water, but still encumbered by the chains. Yet, he seemed to stand somewhat straighter
in the hot shade of the Red Rose.
Marayela helped strip what remained of his garments that stuck to the
dried welts and whip strokes across his body.
She cleaned him tenderly, scrutinisingly, with none of the indifference
she felt when washing the Bede. Nearby
was a leaf from the Rose, she gathered some of the dew and made him drink it
from her cupped hands.
In a matter of moments, by sudden increments,
he felt the pain the Demense had inflicted on him crumble away into another
memory. The woman said she would take
him to her dwelling place so she could remove his manacles.
“Who are you?” Dalrosse asked.
“I am Marayela, a sister of the Rose and also
the Bede’s Keeper.” She took him by the
arm and slowly walked beside him as the Crow tarried behind and above looking
for any guards that may come their way unannounced.
Finally Marayela led him into her
dwelling. To his surprise it was a cool
arbour of indescribable scents. Upon a
bed of silver cushions she lay him down.
From a shelf above his head she took down a bottle of crimson
powder. She rubbed it on the manacles
and the dark metal crumbled. Dalrosse
became, and remained for the rest of his life, unfettered. He slept then for a long time. When he awoke, which seemed like days later,
Marayela was gone. However, the peace
and the healing within the woman’s house lulled him back to sleep.
Marayela refreshed
the whims of the vexed Bede. Tiredly he
told her to depart and to bring him fresh distillate from the Keeper. He also told her to return with the High
Wasp so he could survey the Demense.
When she asked meekly if she could fulfil any of his other needs he
snapped at her.
“No, and tell the
song maid to be silent.”
She didn’t hesitate
to leave him. She was tired from her
exertions with the Bede and decided to go home to refresh herself and check on
Dalrosse before she went to the Red Rose.
Dalrosse was
kneeling outside her home; the ever present Crow beside him, helping the small
man pile together some rocks. He tried
to conjure in his mind the image of Lake
Leme
“What are you
doing?” Marayela asked as she walked towards him.
“I am preparing to
say kada.” She had disturbed him from
his meditation that had seemed a mere scramble of disjointed thoughts.
“What is that?”
“A blessing to
Ashenmoire and the Black Rose, as the sun shines upon it at first light.”
“A Black Rose?” she
said surprised. “There is a Black
Rose?”
The Crow’s caw in
response resembled an abrasive laugh.
“Yes, in a great
hollow on the Island ,” Dalrosse said. “I was going to live there,” he sighed. “They say the Black Rose is stunted and near
to death. Today I say kada to the Red
Rose and this land…and you.”
Marayela went into
her home and prepared to meet with the Keeper.
She was looking forward to flying with Han upon the High Wasp. She took a draught of her distillate to
stave off the sadness in the knowledge that her flight, upon the back of the
great insect, would be short and she would have to relinquish her seat for the
Bede. She washed herself, glimpsing out
through the door. Dalrosse poured
handfuls of sand upon the rocks he and the Crow had collected. She saw him draw shapes in the sand then
wipe them away as the waves of Lake
Leme
Once more a deluge
of rain fell upon the Demense. Marayela
laughed. She took Dalrosse into the
refuge of her home.
“I have some duties
that the Bede has required I do. Don’t
go out as someone will see you once the rain has ceased and you’ll be beaten
again,” she said looking him straight in the eyes. “It’s a wonder that you even got through the
mountains. Now stay safe and hidden, I
really must go.”
Marayela left him
and danced through the rain. She jumped
over the puddles and accidentally scattered Dalrosse’s pile of kada rocks. Lightning ripped through the air as she
reached the Rose mound and climbed to the first thorn.
She climbed the
main stem of the Rose watching the rain drip from the petal of the rose high
above. Looking down she saw the small,
unformed dew collectors so far below her.
Breathless, half up the stem, she struggled into Xhanu’s nest. The High Wasp flickered into
wakefulness. Han, standing vigil beside
Xhanu, laughed with gladness at seeing her.
“Marayela, how
beautiful you look in the rain.” He
hugged her close and kissed the droplets of rain from her brow.
“Watch now. The Bede may be watching.”
Han laughed
again.
“The Bede watching! He’s far too lazy to watch these days. What did he want to send you here, sweet
Marayela?” With Rose imbued fingers he
slowly stroked her spine. She giggled
and their lips caressed each others.
They breathed in and out the glee into one another. She whispered her mission as if it were a
love song.
“The Bede needs
Xhanu.”
The High Wash
yawned.
“At last,” she
said. “To fly! My little ones will come soon, yet I am so
bored watching them. Xhanu flew away
from her nest, scooped the couple onto her back and before they knew it they
were spiralling upwards around the spine of the Red Rose. At last, reaching the single bloom, Xhanu
soared into the blue of the storm cleared sky.
She reached above the plateau and carved giants in the architecture, far
above the weather worn summits of Paillion.
And further they went into the night blue of the morning where starlight
still lingered.
Sighing Marayela
commanded Xhanu to the Bede’s house.
She found him in his bedchamber that stank of his iron odour. She startled him into wakefulness and he
fell from his levitation to the stained and stinking red draped bed.
Meekly she said,
“The High Wasp
awaits you.”
He snarled at her.
“You’ve taken by
dreams from me,” he said as he rose into a tower of scarlet rage and slapped
her down onto the rose littered carpet.
Pathetically he vented his feeble rage with weak slaps and mistimed
kicks. She screamed, as she always did,
and fell beneath him as his half stiff penis tried to burrow into her, but, as
usual he failed and came upon her stomach.
The Bede fell, as if with a weight of iron, his face weeping into her
flock of curling hair.
After she’d helped him to his toilette, she dressed him in his finest
robes and led him to Xhanu, with motherly whispers of his greatness, nibbling
his ear with the tips of her teeth. He
was so full of grace and dignity, she told him, as she did every morning.
As if her heart was breaking she turned away as
Han and the Bede flew away upon the High Wasp.
Chapter 14
Retreat
to R’thera.
Aflarien’s men were exhausted long before the neared the vast city of
Tasen. His, men who had pleasured themselves so greedily upon the streets of Ket,
needed rest. Aflarien fed and filled
them with sparse resources of Theem knowing that in the morning they must be
ready to fight. He put his less hardened
troops to the tasks of digging trenches and a stockade about his tent. Then from the camp, all lights were
distinguished and the hungry, weary boned men awaited the dawn. At first light the battle was not long in
coming. Unknown even to Nen-Resul, a
band of arrowmen from Thet, had killed the guards about the stockade and
infiltrated themselves silently in the vicinity of Aflariens tent. At first the slow flyers sent down
incendiaries upon the defenceless vanguard, brilliant lit chariots fired pelts
of steel into the retreating backs of Aflariens men. From his tent he screamed
to his Captains to fire on the deserters. His dead men like piles of
slaughtered pigs dotted the smoky battlefield.
His face was ashen as he realised he must
retreat. He called his honour guards and
told them to bring horses, from the lights of the burning and the screams of
the early morning Aflarien turned his back away from the smoke and the stench.
Aflariens head cleared as a swift wind from the East
invigorated him. Retreat yes, but it has
not ended, he knew. Soon the Meringal would be struck with sudden war
when he sent his troops to attack other villages, such as Eaun and Pathimplying
that the Shouels would be seen as the aggressors, so the wrath of the humans
would scour the Shouels from those lands.
Others he would order to
the Forest of Soen to set a great blaze
that would turn that tranquil forest into an inferno. The
Shouels there would
not survive. Lies and rumours from his lips would bring more humans
to his banner, from
his sanctuary in R’thera Aflarien would sow dissension, and gather to him
his allies in the war
to come. For now his army in the South
now was almost
useless and he would need the men of Meringal and the north country to
guard him from any
plans that the
soldiers of Nen Resul would advance and try Aflarien’s schemes.
Four horseman escorted Aflarien to the keep.
They exhausted their horses, trying to keep up with the Leader. Within four tiaga of R’thera only Aflarien
stayed upon his horse, the others dead after the long harsh ride and their
horseman crushed beneath. Aflarien rode on as if he were unaware of the pleas for aid from the
soldiers. Then his horse also collapsed,
he rose from the dead horse, the blast of wind from Ashenmoire like a blanket
of comfort wrapping round Aflarien as he contemplated the days to come. He walked
the last undulating hills to R’thera, slipping into the bubble of thought about
him; he seemed to hear words on the winds.
Words from Ashenmoire.
As he struggled on a new thought came to his
mind. If they came to attack him from Tasen R’thera was no adequate
defence. But, there was Ashenmoire and
the weak acolytes of the accursed race. He concluded that if he could take the
Island before winter lay too full upon the lake, with the dark blood of the
decaying rose he would have power over the lands and peoples of Menerth, yes
blights and monstrous creatures he could unleash from the bowels of R’thera,
but his power would be magnified in the Black aura of the Hollow of Helvearn
and such ice and desolation he would bring upon the lordlands of Tasen and
freezing ice bridges would grant him access to the petty kingdoms beyond the
southern ocean.
At last he reached the courtyard of R’thera;
the Keep seemed devoid of any others present.
He lit a hearth in his chambers, sleep lowering his eyes. Yet he forced them open and new strength like
the touch of a psybot filled him. He got up and began to wander around the dark
corridors of the Keep. He descended to
the dungeons, looking into the cells, viperous creatures, like aging ghosts
yearning for nothingness pleaded silently to Aflarien for their releases. ‘Soon’, he whispered to them.
He descended further down the hardly lit steps
to the basement of the Keep. Here there was such a tumult and anger. Within the strong cages chimera ripped into
each other relishing in each other’s flesh
satiating of their need for fresh blood.
Safely, disdaining the anguish of the fettered
creatures he aimlessly wandered about their cages, saw their immense strength
and hate, hate that countless years of Krostic’s hand had engendered. He thought of his army that had attempted to
attack Tasen, how weak they were so weak, that the feeble defence of the city
had made them into snivelling wretches, despite himself their weakness sickened
him. He walked down the final steps to the depth of
R’thera, cages and cages of rats, fought within struggling for food and space, crammed
within the iron cages. He enclosed
himself in a booth and opened the cages, one by one, the black rats two or
three feet tall swarmed about the dungeon floor rising up the many levels to
the gates of R’thera, yet unable to flee as Aflarien’s controlled all that they
could do. He thought about sending them south to destroy all those who had
betrayed him, the soldiers that had deserted, yes send to break the defences of
Tasen. The cacophony of their claws upon the marble floors was like an ecstatic
song in Aflariens head. Aflarien spoke
an ancient word of power and the rats fell into submission and seemed to form
ranks. In the guttural tongue that had
not been uttered for many lifetimes of petty man, he commanded the rats, a
thousand, and another thousand in number, swirling, swaying like a deadly snake
out of R’thera towards the South. The others, the ghouls and the chimera, and
the loyal men of the North he would unleash upon Ashenmoire. As the winter, so
long and harsh in those parts would forestall any plans Nen-Resul and Marriamme
to attack him. If need be he would be
safe on Ashenmoire, interminably.
Aflarien revelled in his power; Ket was
nothing, Tasen a place that had lost glory long ago. He would be King of
Menerth, Lord of Ashenmoire. Yet he knew his victory would herald the end of
Shouels, he would leave none to live, to spawn, and when he had all that he
desired the world would be pure. His legacy would be the end of Shouels and the
end of the memory of them. The
abomination Dalrosse will be brought to me in chains and Shaneal would be sent
to me, she would be his alone and Loor
the weak King will give me her gladly. He
would have all the Omelyns and the prophesies of the UnAuthor will ripen into
fruition. Aflarien would not be only Lord or King of the Menerth but God.
Returning to the courtyard lines of well armed
men, from the villages and the ports about Lake Leme and on the edges of the
Forest marched in the wide courtyard of R’thera. A bright light filled Aflarien’s eyes. Loudly he spoke to the men of the north:
‘Today we march upon the ice-flats of the lake
and we will offer protection to the acolytes of the Black Rose. Take as much as you carry- we do not know
what to expect, some wonder if the acolytes have not already left and have left the rose to root in its hollow,
untended.
‘We must do what we can for the Rose that wills
Aflariens reign over the world, yet, be patient. For one comes. Small, fearful,
indecisive with choice and hope, yet he will come to change the worlds and make
it a world of Shouels. However we have time yet for the Authors tale to
unravels into nonsense, we must have patience, and that old world will die. The snivelling creature must not destroy our
victory. Once Ashenmoire is mine I will
send the jagged minds of the starveling ghost to hinder him, until he dies
beneath the claws of Galian the high Chimera who has starved so long in the
dark. My plans are many and the Author
guides this Shouels steps, but if all comes to nothing and he comes to
Ashenmoire, I Lord of Ashenmoire, King of the World, will slay him.’
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