by Pamita Rao
“I am getting old, Alaira. I cannot protect this family any longer. My knees are getting weaker day by day. Soon, I may not even be able to walk. Who would care for all of you then?”
Alaira looked towards Horace for help, but he stayed silent, drinking from his bowl. She turned towards Neelahaim.
“You may go into the back yard and play. I will bring you some stew in a while.”
Neelahaim nodded eagerly, slid down his chair, and ran out the door as if he had just been released from captivity. Alaira turned to Reddan with a stern look.
“This is not your decision, Father,” she said. “What you ask of me has far greater risk than I am willing to take, and Neelahaim is too young to go through such danger.”
“Creed’s soldiers have been prancing around Nimah like they suspect something. I even saw a few soldiers question the villagers when I went outside today to get water from the well. Something is not right, and I can feel it in my heart; it is as if they suspect us of hiding Neelahaim. They will find him one day, Alaira, and then they will kill him and everyone in Nimah.” Reddan stood up and held Alaira’s shoulder. “Listen to me, my child. Travel through the enchanted forest and find the gate before Creed captures Neelahaim.”
“What about you and the people of Myrth? How can you ask me to leave while you stay here to face Creed?”
Father placed his palms on her cheek. “I am old, Alaira. Myrth is where I loved your mother, where we had three beautiful children. How can I leave when my oldest child is still captive in Tireol palace? I will stay here with a hope that I will be reunited with Elora someday. You both are still young and have your entire lives ahead of you. Go away with Neelahaim and start a new life.”
Alaira sat quietly on the table, thinking about what Reddan had said. Even if she agreed to Reddan’s wishes, she did not know anything about the other realms. What would happen once they entered another realm? Who ruled the other realms? Would those kings allow them to live a life of peace? What kind of people lived in those realms? Were they people at all? The one thing she did know was that soldiers from Tireol had become suspicious of the villagers’ tricks and their visits had become more frequent.
Alaira lifted the bowl of stew that Neelahaim had left on the table and went in search of him. Laughter wafted from the back yard, where Horace pushed Neelahaim higher on his swing while other neighbors’ children begged for their turn. It seemed like Neelahaim was enjoying it too much to give them a chance.
Alaira smiled. She wanted this for him, to be around friends and people who loved him. No one knew who lived in the other realms and what kind of life they would have to lead. What if there was a king worse than Creed?
Horace saw Alaira approach and pulled Neelahaim down from the swing so that Alaira could feed him. Neelahaim tried to climb back onto the swing, but his friends rushed towards the swing and climbed before he could. Neelahaim pouted, but Alaira only laughed, pulling him onto her lap.
After forcefully feeding him, Neelahaim ran back to where his friends gathered, and Alaira rested her feet on a wooden plank, overlooking the hills of Nimah. Horace sat beside her on the plank, and they both enjoyed the rays streaming from behind the hills. Wind blew in her face, pulling strands of hair out of her plaits, while the children giggled and played. At such a moment, under the sun, breathing in the smell of fresh air, she felt at peace. This was her home, and she would not leave it unless there was no other way.
“You should listen to him,” said Horace, throwing a stone high up in air. “We are not strong enough to fight Creed ourselves.”
“You desire to leave your own home?”
“I did not at first, but now I think it may be for the best.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“We have no place left to hide Neelahaim, and we have availed all the tricks we could. I believe father is correct, Alaira. We must run away from Myrth. There is no other way,” he said, now looking at her. “I know you do not wish to leave Myrth, but see those around you. Every villager lives in fear that someday Creed or his soldiers will kill their family.”
Alaira shook her head. “What about Elora? We have to free her; we have to be a family again. I want Elora to come back, to raise her own son.”
Horace shook his head. “No matter how much we wish, Elora will never be released from her prison as long as Creed is alive. You know as well as I that defeating Creed is not within our powers. We must run, Alaira.”
“Do you have no love for our sister? How can you say such words?”
Horace stood up and dusted his clothes before turning to go back inside. “I do not fight the truth, Alaira,” he said. “And neither should you.”
A loud shout was heard from a distance, and Alaira stood on her feet to see clearly. A few soldiers hauled Inglan from his home and tied him on a horse. He struggled against the ropes and yelled for help. Her first thought went to Freddic, but then she remembered that he was delivering liquor to aristocrats living in Lake Tamaha, and Klink had gone with him. Horace retrieved their swords from home and threw Alaira’s sword to her. She caught it in one hand and charged forward, along with Horace.
“Stop at once!” Walahal strode towards the villagers who had gathered outside their homes, trying to stop the soldiers from taking Inglan away. “It is upon the order of the king that we take this man to Tireol Palace.”
“This must be a mistake,” said Alaira. “Inglan is a respected elder of this community. What is his crime?”
“You do not have to concern yourself with his crimes, young lady,” said Walahal, looking at her sword. “You will do well to lower your sword, or my soldiers will be forced to behead you and everyone in this village.”
Alaira turned to watch many more soldiers join him. Fifteen soldiers surrounded them, and Alaira knew that she and Horace would be no match for them. Reluctantly, she lowered her sword. Horace rushed ahead, but she stopped him, shaking her head.
Walahal smiled at her. “You are an intelligent woman,” he said. “If I have a position for another soldier, I will consider you for the job.”
Alaira stayed quiet. Saying anything could harm Inglan even more. She peeked at him, lying helplessly on the horse, his eyes pleading with her. Her heart ached at the sight, and she gave a slight nod to Inglan, letting him know that she would do everything in her power to free him.
“We will be back,” said Walahal before riding away with his soldiers. The villagers watched in horror as the horse that held Inglan galloped away from Nimah, leaving Alaira with only one thought: This has to end.
CHAPTER TEN
The Prisoner
Chimes of bells woke up the vendors of Tireol market square at dawn, and just like every other day, they pushed their carts into the positions that would earn them the most sales during the day. As the sun rose above the horizon, the people of Tireol hustled in the streets to buy their daily goods. The scents of flowers, fish, perfume, and meat wafted in the air, and people moved towards various carts. The fragrance of fresh flowers drew the attention of a few women towards a flower stall. The vendor of a meat stall called out to passers-by to come and get fresh stock, while tending to the queue forming in front of his stall. The smell of fish attracted a few towards a woman crouched on the ground with an open array of freshly caught fish on display.
“Only five coins,” she called out, as her customers picked up fish to see if they were indeed fresh.
An old man hunched his way towards the fruit vendors, followed by his young grandson, who held a basket for him. The sweet scent from the bright red fruits wafted its way to the boy’s nostrils, and his mouth watered at the sight.
The old man moved from one stall to the next, observing the display of bright fruits and vegetables. His grandson grasped his hand as they passed in front of a fruit stall and pointed at a red-colored fruit.
“How much for those fruits?” the old man asked.
“Three coins,” said the vendor.
The old man opene
d his pouch. There were only five coins in his pouch. He had not earned a lot this week. His ageing bones would not allow him to lift heavy goods, and his employer had given him lesser wages than the last time. They had lived on thin vegetable stew to save some coins for the tax collector. This was all he had left until the next payday, and he still had to buy wheat. Wheat would cost a lot more.
As he considered what to do next, his grandson picked up a fruit from the cart and hid it inside a pouch that hung from his shirt.
“I can only spare one coin, lad. How much can you give me?”
“I won’t make enough coins if I sell that little. You have to at least buy a bunch,” the vendor said.
As the old man argued with the vendor, the boy slipped one more fruit into his pouch.
The sudden sound of galloping hooves caught their attention. They lifted their heads in the direction of the noise. Fifteen horses clattered into the market square. Soldiers sat on those horses and held their heads high, and villagers bent their heads and moved back as the soldiers approached.
As they rode by, some of the men paused to snatch fruit from nearby stalls and laughed as the townsfolk moved back to let them pass. The sound of moaning came from behind one of the horses. Inglan’s hands were tied to a horse, and his body dragged across the streets. Many averted their eyes from the blood that trailed behind him, while others simply went on with their daily trade.
The young boy dropped his hand from his grandfather’s grasp and ran to help Inglan. His hands quickly filled with the blood that dripped from Inglan’s chest. One of the soldiers got down off his horse and strode over to the boy. The boy’s eyes widened with fear, but he did not move away.
“Do you think you are a savior?” asked the soldier.
“Let him be, sire. He is only a boy,” the older man said.
“You are all getting too brave for your own good.”
“But, sire,” said the young boy, “this man is hurt.”
“Hush, boy, don’t talk back to them,” the older man said.
“Maybe you have not been disciplined as a child. We shall do that for you now.” The soldier produced a whip and wrung it between his hands before lashing it at the boy’s wrist and then his back. The boy screamed in pain and moved back in terror.
“Stop! Please, stop. He is my grandson. He does not know anything about our rules. I will teach him to be quiet in the future.”
The soldier grabbed the older man by his neck and pulled him close. “If you want to see any of your family alive, you will teach him how to behave in front of us.”
The old man pulled his grandson up, and they scrambled away from the market. The soldiers stared at the villagers, as if challenging them to come forward. None of the villagers dared to stare back. They bent their heads and went back to their daily trade.
One of the soldiers pushed Inglan back onto his knees and tapped the horse to start moving. It galloped ahead, lifting mud in the air, which settled onto the clothes of those nearby, and the soldiers followed the path towards the northern gate of the Tireol palace. The north tower peaked towards the sky, shielding the riders from the rays of the sun as they approached the gates of the palace. The guards at the gates pulled at ropes that created a loud grating sound as the metal gate lifted. The gate shook and moved upwards, allowing the soldiers to pass. As soon as they passed through the gate, the guards released the ropes, and the gate fell back into its groves on the ground with a loud thud.
***
Creed’s velvet robe swept the grainy floor of the Griesmal as he made his way down the spiral staircase to the entrance of the old dungeons. These old dungeons were erected during Balthasar’s reign. No one knew whom he held in these dark and moist dungeons, but Creed had assumed it was meant for dangerous criminals. Balthasar had abandoned Griesmal after floods from the Myrth Sea had drowned whomever he held inside, and it was nothing but an old ruin until Creed took over Tireol. He restored it back to its previous honor, and prisoners were now brought here regularly.
Rows of lamps lit the dark path to where Walahal stood. He bowed before the king and gestured towards the iron bars of the cell behind him. Four soldiers stood with their feet together, their hands in front, and their swords drawn, tips touching the ground.
“Where is he?” asked Creed.
The soldiers moved away, revealing a man chained to the wall. Blood seeped out of various parts of his body; his hair stuck to his face, crusted with blood from his forehead, and his clothes were so torn that only a mixture of mud and blood covered his exposed body.
“We found Inglan tending to horses on his farm and dragged him here through the city, just as you would have expected from your finest.” Walahal stood to his full height. His eyes gleamed in anticipation. It was not just gold or silver that would be thrown his way this time. He knew that this was big, even for the king, for he had captured the man who would lead them to the prince. Walahal would get whatever he claimed as his. The king would surely reward him with great honors this time.
“Did you find the boy?” asked Creed.
“No, my lord. He refuses to speak, but that will not last long, as we will break all his bones until he tells the truth.”
As Walahal led Creed inside the cage, Inglan sat up, his eyes wide in fear. The chains that held him to the wall rattled as he pulled. Walahal scowled at him. He grasped Inglan’s muddy hair and raised his head, forcing him to look directly at Creed.
“Where is the boy?” Creed’s voice echoed through the halls, sending chills through Inglan. He tried to move back, but Walahal held him in place.
Inglan shook his head, his eyes tearing. “I do not know anything about the prince, my lord.”
“You lie to the king!” Walahal fisted his fingers and hit his jaw. Inglan spit blood from his mouth and begged for mercy.
A nail pierced his skin, and his head was raised to meet the eyes of Creed. Inglan watched in horror as Creed’s eyes disappeared, turning into two black hollows. A dark smoke emitted from his hands and entered Inglan’s nostrils. Pain like needles pierced his head.
Inglan tried to scream, unable to bear the pain, but no voice came out of his throat. His throat started to close up, and his breath stopped for a while. His eyes watered, and he gasped for air until Creed released him.
“Tell me where he is,” said Creed.
Inglan heaved and coughed as his breath came back to him. He could not take the pain any longer; he was not raised a warrior like Reddan and his family. He was a simple merchant who made his living on a farm. His lips trembled, Reddan’s name almost on his lips. After all, what had Reddan and his family done for him or Nimah? Why should he or anyone else suffer for their follies?
He had told Freddic to stay away from their family, but he had taken a liking to Reddan’s daughter. Initially, when they had come to the village, he had taken them in, given them shelter, but now look what they had done to everyone around them. All he had to do was give up their name, and Nimah would be free of any danger.
He raised his head to meet the hollow eyes of Creed. He had never seen Creed from this close up, as he had stayed all his life under the protection of the aristocrats, but now, seeing him turn into a monster, witnessing his brutality, the pain he so clearly enjoyed bringing upon people…his resolve to give up Reddan weakened. Could they have been telling the truth all this while? Freddic and Reddan had said that this was a war, that all villagers had to come together to defeat Creed. Could they really do it, and if so, had he been standing in their way all this while? It was his chance to do something right, to stand with the others in this fight. This time, he would face what came to him with bravery. “I do not know of what you ask,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Then you will die,” said Creed.
“Then so be it, my lord. I will die a happy man, knowing I gave my life for good.”
Creed dropped his hands from the prisoner’s face and held his open palms in front of him. “Onyr-de’anta,” he chanted a spell a
s a spiraling ball of fire appeared in the middle of his palm. It glowed so bright that the guards moved away from their posts and covered their eyes.
One of the soldiers called out to him. “My lord, he is not the only one. He has accomplices. If you kill him, we will never be able to find out who they are.”
Creed turned to the soldier, his eyes blazing with fire. “Then I will find someone better than you to do the job.” Before the soldier could blink, the fireball seared through his shirt and pierced his chest; it moved to the center of his body and exploded from within, obliterating every inch of his body. Nothing remained but ash that settled on the ground like dust. Creed flicked his fingers, and called to Walahal. “Find his accomplices and bring them to me.”
Walahal bowed and left the prison, along with a few soldiers. Inglan’s eyes went wide, and he pressed his back to the wall as Creed moved towards him.
“I will find those who assist you and take great pleasure in killing each of them very slowly until they give back what belongs to me.”
Inglan clenched his palms around the chain that held him tight and pulled as Creed started to leave. “Please, my lord, I would never dare go against you.”
Creed turned one last time to see the prisoner and left the prison.
“Close the prison door,” he said to the prison guard who stood outside.
Creed’s eyes turned dark, and the guard hurried to close the door and latch it from the outside. A thick black smoke formed and crept through the closed door, filling the prison. Little scattering noises filled the silence of the enclosed space. Out of the smoke came tiny spiders and other insects with sharp claws. They ran everywhere, filling every space. The prisoners within the Griesmal screamed and ran as the creatures multiplied and fell on them. The guard moved back in fear and disgust at the bellowing of prisoners, banging on the doors to free them. Creed laughed, a blanket of smoke forming around him.
