The Nameless Slave 2

by Vitaly Zykov

  The quiet and melodic conversation of the Elves lords, which had lasted for a long time already, was broken surprisingly with a short phrase:

  – Ea'eellakh!

  Yarik felt a waft of eerie spookiness and inevitable end.

  – Ea'eellakh! Ea'eellakh! Ea'eellakh! – Sounded new voices, and bringing the final verdict, repeated it four times – Ea'eellakh!..

  The Elves turned around, left the clearing and immediately two Elven mages whose blinding auras were burning brighter then campfire approached Yarik. They both had an ornate staff in one hand and a large stone shimmering with hungry light in the other. Raising these stones above their heads, the magicians began to chant the words of a spell. The stones began to throb in beat of the spell. The pillars, Yarik was tied to, were trembling, trickles of energy were running over the straps. When the trembling surpassed even the pain from the guards' staffs, Yarik felt the pressure on his mind subsiding and without hesitation hit around with his magic. He had no time to aim his blow or, at least, give the energy a definite form, he simply scooped up as much Force as he could and threw it at the enemy.

  There was a weak burst somewhere very close and salt splashes flew at his skin. Immediately somebody yelled, and… everything flew out of Yarik's mind. The mages in white clothes were reading the spell without interruption, ignoring the guard whose head had just exploded and the heart-rending cries of the second guard who was rolling on the ground, they waved the tops of their staffs and blue lightnings struck at the rebellious prisoner. Energy discharges shrouded Yarik's body, forcing his muscles to tremble from infernal pain. At the same time the magicians came to the pillars and put the stones into the small bowls on the tops of the pillars. Their hands with staffs shot up, froze in the highest point and fell down. The stones blazed with hellish light and some red mist rushed from the pillars along the straps to the man's body. Yarik's eyes immediately rolled back, and he began to twitch in the straps. A groan of agony swept through the clearing and subsided. Yarik's hands became black and vile dots of ulcers swelled on his skin.

  The magicians began to speak calmly, even indifferently. They spoke in an ancient language, which only Elven mages and perhaps some goblins could understand.

  – You know, I felt something familiar in this youth. Something very old, but very familiar. – The voice of the speaker was thoughtful and quiet.

  – The old blood, the boy just woke up the old blood. Some crude magic and a few accidentally picked up spells. It would be interesting to study him, but it's useless to dream about that. The Forest Breath is the Forest Breath! Moreover, Irrual was killed, the heads of clans will be furious.

  – But it does not matter. – The magician passed his staff over the second guard who was sobbing quietly in the grass and fell silent immediately. – The Council should realize that our young people are as worthless as human. If an ignorant man could kill an Elf guard in a split second, what could a real magician do? They'd better start thinking!

  – Do you regret that you have resigned from the Council? – The second magician grinned.

  – Well no! I was sick of this stupid fuss, that's why I'd gone. It simply makes me sick to look how Elves are going downhill. We forgot about our brothers across the Ocean, but you can be sure, they forget nothing and never. These were our ancestors who burned Ssarr'larr'Goarr, after all, and M'Lleurr will remember that forever. The towers of the ancient city, sparkling in rays of rising Tass, are already forgotten, but the hatred has remained…

  – You love old stories – his companion said in a slightly trembling voice. – Better tell me, how long can this loser hold on?

  – This loser? – Judging by willingness in his voice, the magician was glad to change the subject. – A long time! It is possible that his soul will still resist the obsession of the Breath, but his body will not withstand… Strangely, this execution has not been used for five thousand years already. And no one says why!

  Hearing the answer, the second magician shook his head, but said nothing. The mages turned and walked away, leaving it for common Elves to deal with the wounded and dead kinsmen. The agony of the prisoner should last for many, many weeks, and there was no sense to look after him anymore. The Forest Breath – the torture as ancient as the history of Elves, knew no cases of prisoner escape without outside help, but there could not be any such help in the heart of Elves country, even the magicians of Nold on their faithful dragons did not dare to peek in here. The murderer of Firstborns got the punishment he deserved and now it was only left to wait for the ancient magic to execute the retribution…

  His consciousness was immersed into darkness, the blinding, deafening darkness, which did not let out of its sticky embrace. It was pulsing, entangling the bare mind in a snare of darkness. The horror and fear were corroding his soul. Hope had been lost long ago under the pressure of eternity. The pain, all-pervading and constantly changing pain tormented the man, did not allow to distract himself from the torture… There was not even a second of oblivion or rest. The victim of the executioners had to answer for his crimes to the full, to completely go through all the suffering prepared for him…

  Only his will saved Yarik from madness. During his drilling with Hisser he was already tested by gloom and darkness, though everything was different that time, but he withstood then and he will withstand now. Let he may not have a single chance to escape, but he will fight until the end, until his last breath. This is his essence, if he gives up, he will not just be a coward, who has escaped from the struggle into the death, but his very own traitor…

  Again, and again Yarik replayed the pictures of his life in his memory, as if living it again and thereby filling the emptiness of the darkness. Again and again and again, he was pushing the despair and hopelessness somewhere deep down, suffering the pain of this perverted torture, which was invading not only his body, but also his soul…

  Suddenly there was a new feeling. As if something wet and rough was walking over his cheeks, his nose, his lips and eyes, over all his face. His face?!! Yarik tried to moan, but failed, only the new pain filled his body. Although it was quite different now. The pain was real, but it was not so deep, it did not shake the basis of his soul. Some buzzing appeared in his head, and Yarik realized that he had been lying without breathing for a long time already, as if his body had forgotten how to breathe. With an effort of will, he forced his lungs to work and immediately heard a quiet yelp very close and some claws scratched his skin. Only now Yarik realized that he was back in his own body, the darkness disappeared, the power which so long had tormented all his human nature had vanished.

  Yarik opened his eyes and saw nothing, except some little sparks dispersing the darkness infinitely far away… It was the sky, the night sky! This fact filled his heart with violent joy of life. The prisoner began to stir and found himself lying on his back in soft silk grass. Someone small and happy was sitting on his chest and Yarik was surprised and pleased to recognize Rual.

  – Little tyke, you're alive! – He tried to pat his four-legged friend and cried from sharp pain in his hand.

  Yarik looked inward himself with his Inner eye and only with great difficulty kept the focus and continued the inspection. It seemed that a butcher had worked on his body – so deformed and distorted was his flesh. His body was one big open wound now. His consciousness was gradually coming out from stupor and the pain started to return, intensifying with every passing moment. Yarik could not believe that a human can live with such injuries for at least a second. The animal vitality of his body deferred inevitable death, but he should do something and do it immediately.

  Yarik slid in Sat'tor and began to saturate his damaged organs with Force. The pain immediately subsided, the open wounds started to overgrow with young skin… Well, that's enough! He had no time for rest, he should work with his health later. The damned Elven mages must have already noticed some strange magic in the heart of their city. At first Yarik groaned and stood on all fours, then straightened to his
full height. The surrounding world slightly staggered, and the wounded man grasped a pillar with his right hand, then sharply pulled it back as if it was burned. Yarik did not want touch the tool of his torture in any circumstances.

  Having stood for a while the prisoner made a careful step, then one more and one more. His teeth were clenched so that they were ready to crumble into sand, the pain was rolling on him with every movement, but he needed to go. His foot stumbled over something round. Yarik lowered his eyes and strained his night vision – there was one of the stones used in the vile rite, although now it was neither pulsing nor glowing but looked like an ordinary dead stone. He wanted to kick it with his foot, to crush, to grind it into dust and disperse it in the wind. In the man's soul who had forgotten about human emotions stirred a feeling, one of the strongest human emotions – hatred. It stirred timidly and hid. His time had not come yet!

  Yarik made a few steps and stumbled again upon the scraps of ropes with traces of small teeth on them. Kaifat. Some warmth appeared inside the exhausted man. The fluffy kid found him just in time. His animal instinct helped him not only to break the spell, throwing off the magic stones from their pedestals (Yarik looked around and saw that the second stone was also thrown to the ground), but he bit the straps, giving his master life and freedom. Now the little beast was stepping close to his barely moving master, sometimes the animal ran ahead and looked timidly into Yarik's eyes. Through those unknown ties bounding them Yarik could feel the beast's fear for him.

  – Don't worry, kid! We'll cope! – Yarik whispered with his disobedient lips, trying to go faster.

  Realizing that he could not pass through the forest, past the alert watchmen, to say nothing of the chase that would certainly be sent after him, Yarik trusted his instincts and went to a river that was lurking somewhere ahead.

  It was not too far to go, just about fifty yards, but it cost him a lot of efforts, all the same! Something was flowing over his face all the time, daggers of pain pierced his body to the very heels, his young skin was bursting, his legs were buckling… But Yarik reached the river. There ahead, behind the dense thickets of scrubby trees was a wide berth for Elven riverboats. Yarik stepped onto the wooden deck and froze on the spot – there was something dark at the very water. He looked closer and saw an Elf lying on the ground. A nimble shadow separated from the dead body and jumped to Yarik. Rual! His faithful friend had already taken care of everything, clearing the way for his master.

  Hiding no more Yarik strode forward and stepped on a sheet of paper whitening in the dark.

  «Surely this bastard must have written poetry! They can see in the dark better then cats!» – His thoughts were literally oozing with evil poison. However, he did not lean to check the assumption: he had no enough forces, and his night vision was failing today, everything looked fuzzy and hidden in shadows. Even simple walking took too much effort, but he could not leave the Elf corpse to lie here. Straining all his might Yarik dropped a pretty heavy body into the water and almost flew after it.

  Yarik swore under his breath and lumbered farther, looking for a proper boat, luckily there was a great variety of them tied here. He found a suitable boat after a while – a small nimble boat was tied at the far end of the pier advancing far into the river. Already descending into the boat he heard some distant shouts. Apparently, his escape was learnt at last.

  – It's strange that they found it out so late! – The exhausted man muttered under his breath. – Rual, bite off that rope!

  Yarik sent a mental order to his animal and began to look for an oar or a pole, which he could use to push the boat off the pier. Yarik found a long oar very soon – he just tripped over it and fell. It was hard for him to stand up once again, but he managed. The satisfaction from completed task coming from Rual's mind informed him that he could cast off. Yarik propped his oar against the pier and pushed off. His throat was constricted with suppressed scream, his hands immediately became slippery with blood from his broken skin, but he endured.

  Finally, the distance gradually began to grow. Slow, too slow! Yarik looked gloomily at the long line of boats which were much larger than his fragile little boat. It would be nice to burn everything here, but he had no strength… Yarik slumped to the boat bottom, which just got into the river course, and it led the boat into the middle of the river. Yarik had seen such rivers only on Earth, already veiled with haze of oblivion. The river was wide, powerful and beautiful, covered with fog creeping over the water, it looked like mythical Lethe flowing from nowhere to nowhere. A decent place for death, inasmuch as he was not going to fall into Elves hands any more. Yarik leaned back on the mast. It was much more comfortable to sit, but the fugitive immediately jumped, or rather, tried to jump, but in fact he arose with great difficulty. He should go as far as possible under the cover of darkness before the long-eared began pursuit.

  Yarik began to look over variety of ropes frantically, he did not know their exact name. Suddenly something happened and the hitherto folded sail unrolled. The self-taught sailor tied the ropes to a small ledge, and the limp sail filled up with stream of air. The sailboat faltered and ran down over the river waves a little faster. Breathless, with his last bit of strength Yarik moved to the stern of the boat, and sat near the helm. Having set the direction along the river course and fixing the wheel with a short rope which lay at his feet, he fell into a heavy sleep…

  His awakening was a real nightmare. His whole body was aching, his cramped muscles refused to work, making Yarik groan. Finally, after rather a long meditation he made his body to obey his mind and got to his feet, leaning on the mast. In daylight his body looked awful. Even the most experienced human executioner could hardly have mutilated an organism to such a state. His legs, hands and other body parts were still in their places, but… This was probably what a person flayed alive would look like. Yarik, turning cold inside, leaned over the boat side and froze looking at his reflection in the river… Looking at him from the water, was an ugly freak whose left half of the face and all the whole neck were covered in swollen purple scars. Taking into account the state of the rest of his body, Yarik could only wonder how he managed to stay alive…

  He could not show up among people with such appearance. This realization shifted some valve in Yarik's soul, his accumulated anger and hatred resulted in a deadly half-scream half-howl, hearing this scream Rual hid under a bench on the bow and stayed there trembling all over. Yarik laughed hoarsely, and his laughter was like crows cawing over a battle field. Then he stood near the mast.

  After a while he felt Rual touching him gently with his paw. Looking down, Yarik saw a small bottle of intricate shape near his four-legged friend. Yarik unscrewed the cap, and the spicy aroma of wine hit into his nostrils.

  – Where have you got this?

  Rual, jumped on the spot and ran to a box on the bow, which Yarik had not seen before. The animal was able to open it somehow and got one of the bottles lying there. There were three more such bottles and in addition several neat bundles in which was flatbread smelling of herbs.

  – Well, at least there is something to eat. Good job! – Yarik praised his friend and smiled uncertainly.

  All the same, life gave him another chance, and he should not lose it, at least in order to be able to take revenge.

  For Elven lord-magician Elnir his return to Vilual this day turned out to be extremely unusual. After the implementation of the Forest Breath spell he felt pretty nasty and was glad to accept the invitation of lord-magician Manurin. Despite their personal participation in the ancient torture rite and cynicism of thousand year old Elves, the mages felt they had made a big mistake in relation to this mortal. The grand lords made a serious mistake when they did not listen to their advisors. A colossal mistake it was.

  Lords Elnir and Manurin ransacked almost the entire library of Glivear, but found nothing concerning history of the Breath, except some vague mention and rather hazy allusions. Only one phrase on a half-decayed scroll mentioned vaguely
the ancient spell: «…The world will shudder by the star which does not fade under the Breath, the world will shudder…» This was a quote from one even more ancient source, it was cited as something generally known, and therefore there was not need in complete citation, and the document itself justified necessity to stop learning and actively using some high areas of the Old magic. Though, apparently, that proposal was performed only partly: experienced magicians continued to study the spells like the Forest Breath, but the use of such spells was strictly forbidden… and this forbiddance was violated in the year of two thousand one hundred and twenty-seven from Acceptance of the Scepter according to human chronology.

  Elnir, immersed in his thoughts, dismounted and barely flinched encountering the captain of Guards of the Grand Lord. The warrior's aura expressed confusion and unwillingness to announce some clearly unpleasant news.

  – Speak. – Elnir tensed inside, preparing for the most unpleasant news.

  – Lord, the Head of the clan is absent, and I have to report you about the incident, and… – Captain Svearin was nervous and spoke a little hesitantly.

  – Where is the Head of the clan? – The mage interrupted the warrior.

  – He has not returned from el'Tuaren yet. Their Head invited him after the Council…

  – Well, and what exactly happened that you could not handle yourself? – Elnir asked calmly.

  The guardsman abruptly sighed and said in a dry voice:

  – The murderer escaped!