Tales Of Grimea, page 4
“We walked further past them, she holding my arms and I tipsy and moving my feet as fast as possible. Then something stirred in me, a desire to comfort her. I told her that such scum would never dare harm her, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than did I hear a crash that took my consciousness with it. My eyes opened a few times after that, and it was always to a gap toothed grin and another punch or kick. Behind them the starry sky beckoned, and I could heard screams and laughter, although of what I knew not. That could not have been the screams of a man, such pain they conveyed. Behind the men, orange fire and safety beckoned, but I could not reach it.
“When I awoke finally, it was to a physician’s room, white and sanitary. The man himself had painted the cabin, I knew, for he was my family’s physician. I don’t recall his name, but I do remember his grim sadness. He told me of gladness from my survival, although I was bandaged from head to toe. Every bone in my body had been broken or nearly so. I could not see much through the bandages, but when I asked him of Helia a softness entered his sadness. Perhaps he didn’t like me, but there no doubt that his heart had been moved to tears by her ordeal.
“She was raped. Not unheard of, but shocking all the same. The old fool told me of how she’d been taken by all seven of them in turn and in tandem, screaming and crying all the while. Naturally, I was devastated, and my thoughts turned to imagination. Of her lying in the cold snow, shouting for me, begging and pleading. That set my heart aflame, and I hated them with a passion. The pain from my own broken fingers vanished as I clenched them, and shattered teeth ground together in anguish. Those filthy worthless scum, her as I lay there?”
“You were unconscious, master.” My words were meant to soothe, but he chuckled instead. I noticed for the first time scars on his browned skin, subtle yet numerous on his face, and I was sure his body would be covered in more. It was curious that a man of his heritage would be a noble in Xera, for the land was covered by pale men, both blonde and brown headed like this man’s lover.
“Exactly what I thought at first. But was I? I imagined her screams so vividly, so perhaps I was at the edge and could hear. Maybe my mind blocked the vision, or perhaps I could see her there, stomach against the ground and a man twice my size destroying her as she tried to push away. Was she pushing or pulling? Was that begging to stop or to continue? Was she asking for that other one too? Such blasphemy, it could not be! How could I think that about the woman I love? No, in the first place, who would enjoy the rape? Surely the human mind would detest such unwanted intrusion? But maybe? I was filth, they were scum, and she should die! I Hate my weakness and their evil, and want nothing less than murder for them.” With the darkness of his words came a glitter to his sight and a pain within my skull. I realized that not only were these the exact thoughts he had back then, my master was lucid no more and the formidable power of his mind was running rampant. In horror I listen, fixed and place and begging silently for release, but not through the window. I could hear footsteps far away, coming from the corridor leading further down into the dungeons.
“I want blood and blades and burning and dancing and carnage I could watch in glee. I want them dead and tortured whilst I laugh. no!” As he exclaimed the word, the footsteps grew numerous and close. I turned first in relief then horror as the first prisoner, blank eyed and bare footed, stepped slowly into the dungeon, bowed to my master… then leapt headfirst through the portal and to his doom, shouting “Hail Gregerovitch!” with a voice growing so hoarse that I feared his throat had turned bloody before he struck the ground. One by one they went, prisoners large and small and weak and smart. One man even crawled, for Footless was exactly as one could imagine from his nickname.
“I want us all tortured and killed, slowly. I want to see destruction, then justice for those who abuse it, then more and more! I want hate, hate, hate, hatehatehhahahahaha! Then,” he continued with a calm smile and quiet voice as if nothing happened, to my horror. The few prisoners left in line were released, and the fled to their cells in terror of my master. I was close to fainting myself, but listened still. “I howled. The sound was guttural and base, and there was only one word in my mind. Hate. I hated everything and everyone, and in my mind countless visages of death arose, each horrid and strangely satisfying. When I shouted, my mind expanded for the first time and the hate within me dropped the physician and his aides. They were dead before hitting the floor, of course. Still the scream continued unabated, and my mind stumbled along it with more raw insanity than you could possibly imagine. For the first time, the world was mine to shape, and the walls of logic melted away. Then the breath ended and I inhaled. With that, all the hate was directed inwards, and it broke everything. There was nothing left to fear, for I was to become the stuff of madness itself. All would fear me, and all was required was to share.” His smile then was innocent, and set my legs a-shaking. Whatever he could do, I wanted none of it.
“You see, my boy, the thing I hated the most was my own weakness, and so my mind sought to compensate. I became strong of mind. The first thing I did was erase my existence so as to become no one and be able to spread things in anonymity. My wife, parents, friends, even those dogs who’d taken Helia. All took their own lives in numerous and enjoyable ways. Directly afterwards, I came here, and here I shall remain until ready to set out for the task at hand. Naturally, all here will die then, but that’s hardly a pity. You all are a sorry lot, barely worth the breath, guards and prisoners alike. Except for you, my child” he reassured me, “You shall live and spread the word long after I’m gone, when none can stop me anymore. You shall speak of your master when what I want is accomplished.”
“a-a-and what is it you desire, my master, lord, and god?” I sought to appease him, but that monster of a man was bemused.
“Don’t call me a god, that’s just plain silly. Why, I thought my want was simple enough to understand.” With a grin he turned to look at the window, then stepped over to overlook the mound of dead bodies barely visible far below, then tutted. “One of the buggers lives. Another one must have broken her fall. No matter, a slow freeze is fine as well. Where was I? Oh, yes. Many people live in the realms, you see. I just want to hear all of them cry in unison before it becomes quiet. Now, administer my daily beating and then run along, child.”
Run I did, as fast as my legs could take an old man after kissing the master’s feet, to where I immediately wrote this passage. I do not know if he’ll keep his word and spare me, for Krulov Gregorovitch is deep in the clutches of madness, and what’s frightening about it was that I hadn’t even known till this very day. I had thought him a capable psionic, if of dark disposition, but his every word hinted at fury so deep it could spell ruin for many. I yearn to stab him in sleep, even if the attempt results in my own doom, but he may end up leaving me alive when he decides to leave. Call me a coward, but life is precious. Perhaps he knew of this struggle, perhaps he even wanted it. If I do attempt the deed, and there are no more entries, then remember Mardow Grame not as a thief far past his prime, but either a hero who delivered many from certain doom, or a man who tried to.
Crossroads:
Year: 850 Post Kerallus. 200 Pre Adventus
What if nobody wants it? Thought Hwosh Ru’ub as he trudged along a tired, bitter dirt road. He could tell the road was tired because it was in disuse, causing the wasteland it ran through to try and eat into it here and there. Moreover, he knew the road was bitter because it tried to spit up dust at him. Hwosh sighed, allowing the sun to glare at him in disapproval. Probably, if he waited here long enough, in time that same glaring eye would grind him to dust, the same way that it took over everything in this landscape. The man grunted, adjusting the Worg’s corpse upon his back.
Worgs were dangerous creatures, large to say the least. In fact, this one had stood a little taller than him, boasted thickness at its torso equal to that of a tree trunk, and was longer than two men could stand upon each other. Black fur itched at the nape of Hwosh’s neck as he carried the thing with him. Then again, Worgs were fearsome beasts only around here. Beyond Ghata’s outskirts, there were creatures the likes of which he had never seen outside of books. Even within the region’s borders, there were many ways to die. He had no business getting cocky just because he killed a minor beast.
As he made his way, Hwosh began to sweat due to the wasteland’s heat. It was already mid-afternoon, but the sun seemed reluctant to budge from directly above his head. “Shoo,” he mouthed, throat caked with dust. Trees grew here and there, but they were greyish and small and thorny by nature, meaning they would provide no shelter. Of course, a glowing orb of heat wouldn’t listen to his puny commands, and so the sun stayed stubbornly in place, cooking him slowly. By the time Hwosh reached Lor’s crossroads, he’d sweated enough onto his cheap hide armour that his shoulder itched. Heedless of the southern and northern roads, the dark haired man adjusted his red bandanna and pushed on east towards his town.
Lor was an uncommon town, for it was independent from surrounding countries, and was thus considered unimportant in some ways. To the north and south rose two great empires, and neither bothered with this small oasis town. Nor was Lor easterly enough to actually be part of Ramlah, the desert with its secluded nomadic societies, boasting the proudest and most dextrous of warriors. Of course, Lor wasn’t part of the wastelands stretching west either, and so was considered interesting in its own way. Traders liked dropping by in caravans and bartering, because goods from almost every surrounding region could be found in the multicultural town. No desert wyrm talons or Regalian silk, but a careful eye could, perhaps, spot crystal orbs from Indellekt or a rare gem from the nearby western wastelands, where hidden chasms led into long forgotten cave systems filled with wonders and the dusty scent of death. That said, for Hwosh Ru’ub the monster hunter, this town with its clay and wooden structures was little more than good old boring home.
As he reached the town gates, Hwosh sighed, because along the beaten dirt road a long line of people stood between him and the town. Sometimes, due to how popular the town was with traders, such things happened. Hwosh stood there, between a wagon carrying turnips (which were actually halfway rare here) and a woman carting over selkworm eggs. Both were surprising to the monster hunter. A part of him longed to chat with the woman and ask her why she’d brought these eggs to Lor, despite its lack of rookie wizards needing a small safe familiar. In his mind, the conversation would go thus:
“Hi!”
“Hey, there. Oh my, that’s one big Worg you’ve got.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to brag about.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m more interested in your eggs. Do you go west often?”
From there on, she would tell him a lot about the farther reaches of the wasteland as well as where to find good towns to trade, and Hwosh would push his bandanna higher up on his head in wonder, causing its string of beads and ornaments to clutter about the side of his face. Slowly, their line inched forward, then faster, until Hwosh was gestured in through Lor’s gates after the man with the uproar causing turnips. The guard didn’t smile at him, although he grunted at the sight of a man carrying a Worg as calmly as Hwosh did.
Few in this town liked Hwosh; they seemed to carry an opinion of him that he himself shared. It was often better to stay quiet than to say something and make a fool of himself. Of course, the warrior looked back at the woman as she turned left after the gate with her wagon and after a second the man pushed on straight ahead. She wouldn’t have chatted anyway. Not with him.
After making his way through the winding dust bitten streets of Lor for a few minutes, the tall monster hunter’s shoulders loosened slightly, and his gait began to become more relaxed. Life can go on well enough, he thought.
Hwosh made his way towards the western side of town, beyond the bustling bazaar filled with exotic scents and smokes. Dust mingled here with spices and the feathers fallen from birds with impressive plumages, which were apparently a particular steal here. Why anyone would more for an “off turquoise” bird than for a small house, a simple warrior would never know. The buzzing crowd was mostly made up of foreigners, identifiable both by certain facial features which hadn’t yet been distilled into an average continental look, and also by choice of clothing. Regalians hade proud high cheekbones and often boasted bluish eyes and lighter skin, whereas those of Indellekt liked to dress in more modest robes, although still rather colourful. As Hwosh made his away along the shaded stands with their bright covers, calls came from merchants announcing their wares in an almost songlike chant. The sounds clamoured against one another, and the fighter ruefully smiled. This was what home sounded like to him.
Somewhere along the way, a merchant in a simple brown robe and a square hat, called a kama, stopped the tanned man. “That’s a mighty Worg you’ve landed yourself,” he remarked with an impressed whistle. His stand, noticed Hwosh, was better shaded than most. In fact, this merchant had set up a long tent like piece of blue cloth from the left building to the right in order to shield an entire section of street from the sun’s hot glare. His wares mostly consisted of beast: Skins, scales, pelts, as well as tusks. He could see jaws and fangs and even a drake scull looming ominously upon a high shelf. This man seemed to know his business.
“Thank you, sir,” Hwosh responded politely yet in a measured manner, “I’ve heard of your work, master Baqir.” The merchant smiled at that, a wide toothy grin. Lor was a town of trade, and it was natural for the most prominent of merchants to be famous. Baqir was one of those few who had risen above the need to have a street stand in the Bazar yet held one anyways. Some called him strange, and that he was indeed. Still, the charitable man was well respected, for he was as ruthless in trade as he was kind in society. Hwosh had heard of him, of course, and knew what he now wanted of him.
“So? How about thirty Regalians for the beast, boy?” offered the merchant with a thoughtful look. Hwosh almost flinched at the price. He eyed the slightly pudgy man, trying to think things through. Somewhere to the left, a parrot was repeating its owner’s cries.
“It’s green and red, great beside the bed!”
“It’s loud, it’s true, only the best for you!”
“Such, a steal, you can have it for a meal!”
Hwosh barely gave the background noise an ear, however. “Sir,” he murmured hesitantly, “The price you offer is too much. This worg,” he gave the wolf like thing upon his back a shake, “is worth twenty, maybe twenty three Regalias.” The man’s expression changed for a second, and then he laughed, slapping his thigh.
“Aye, boy,” he exclaimed, before a nearby man dropped his bag of cinnamon powder and sent all around into a coughing fit, chased by a hail of curses. When the commotion subsided, Baqir added “You look like a strong boy, so I thought selling this to you for a higher price would work as incentive.” A wide smile coated his face, and Hwosh understood the man’s reading of his tired leather armour and nicked broadsword. Not just as a lasting investment; this man wants to outfit me for better work somewhere. There was no way a merchant as savvy as Baqir would boast an inexperienced eye for wares, and yet Hwosh found himself doubting the man. There were many tough fighters in the streets of Lor, hardened by the town’s less lawful side, not to mention the east’s dextrous Muqateleen or Regalia’s knights. Settling on a cub such as himself could be no more than a backup plan, at best. Could the moustached man’s motive for this offer be pity?
Before he even knew it, Hwosh was considering Baqir’s offer seriously, lost in the man’s earnest and kindly demeanour. Then again, the black haired man was a simple one, if not stupid, and proud in his own way. Hard earned money was simply more appealing than the good natured charity of Baqir Kareem. Also…
“Thank you, uncle,” Replied he respectfully, setting his Worg down on the dusty road and almost tripping a coffee boy. He inched closer to the merchant and took one of his ringed hands in both of his, allowing his words to carry in an almost revering whisper. “But I have a commission from master Salim.”
Baqir almost recoiled at the name, but then laughed off Hwosh’s apologies with a waving hand. “That’s alright, my boy,” he exclaimed, “A merchant knows when he’s beat! But next time,” he added with a waggling finger raised in mock anger, “Don’t tease an old man with what he can’t have.” With that Hwosh was forced to take a cup of hot black coffee from one of the constantly moving vendors. The boy handed Baqir’s cup with ease yet seemed more hesitant with Hwosh, perhaps due to the man’s physique or the beast lying at his feet. His right hand shook as he held a cup out, hot coffee scented with kerdama seeds pouring into it through a pipe attached to the copper vat strapped onto the youth’s back. The child gulped as Hwosh smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. He kept his gorgeous grey eyes -a rarity when coupled with his browned skin- on the warrior for the full minute Baqir took to dismiss him with one more coin than was strictly necessary.
A few minutes after that, Hwosh Ru’ub was sent on his way. The man went quietly, secretly glad for the brief rest from carrying his prey upon one shoulder. As he went towards the east of town, Hwosh inevitably had to cross Themra: an oasis ringed by a lake and accessible only through four simple yet finely made limestone bridges. The oasis was devoid of buildings, for ancient law declared its waters public property and prohibited any parties from exerting influence upon it. Even the underground king adhered to that law. A few tired animals grazed here and there, yet Themra was decidedly man’s cohort: people were in perpetual motion to and from the oasis, carrying buckets laden with water sweeter than a sweetmaker’s potions and almost magical with its healing properties. Legend had it that when the first of Lor’s inhabitants had settled here and managed to choose a Sultan from amongst the many war chiefs and learned, Sultan Salah the first was chosen to lead. Directly after creating an advisory body out of guild leaders and establishing basic laws and ruling system, the man tasked his right hand man and sorcerer with casting as many spells of preservation and healing on the water, allowing it to become a foundation for a city to rise around it and to last through ages. Some say that the sorcerer, whose name had long since been lost, was so powerful that the water’s magic can still heal a multitude of illnesses and promotes good fortune. Another faction maintains that the sorcerer went on to do great things in Indellekt. Others say that Themra just has excellent water.
