by Ivory Autumn
These lawless men, who professed the law, were nothing more than mere spawns of The Fallen, and leeches of darkness, perfectors of perfection, exactors of exactness---hard, puffed-up villains, condemners, hypocrites, thieves, murderers, masquerading as the kindest of people.
The dirt that came in through these cracks, came quite without anyone’s knowing how. It clung to the bottoms of peoples’ shoes, and coated their walls with grime, and tainted the air.
Thus the city that worshiped the law, that worshiped perfection, grew in this polluted atmosphere year by year. And this city, who many lauded it for its perfections, was anything but perfect.
It reeked of injustice.
For every action, there was a law, a way to perform a function. To walk, to speak, to stand, to learn, to worship, to eat, to sleep, to drink, to live, and to die. Everywhere there were iron bars waiting for you if you did not follow these endless lists of laws. Laws that had come from The Fallen himself. Laws that were first tested in this city, then enforced everywhere else. Yes, this was a cold, icy place to live. On every sidewalk, and on every corner were thick sheets of ice placed there on purpose for unsuspecting pedestrians to slip on. Everywhere you turned, you were in danger of breaking something---be it a law, bones, or ice, it was all put there to cause you to fall.
On such icy roads many slipped, and many men never got back up. But there was a slow thaw going on brought about by the freed words. Instead of ice there were now great puddles of sludge and wetness, cramping the city's already rigid, wintry style.
The slow thaw had caused those who lived in the city to become more aware of what they had been too numb to realize before---that their city was very cold. Though puddles themselves were outlawed, there were plenty to be had. Puddles form where the ground is uneven. And the ground in that city was prime puddle territory. The straighter the lawmakers tried to make the city, the more skewed it became.
This exacting city was the very same city Lancedon and his men now sought to enter, though none suspected their coming. A lone man peered in through the gates of the city. Though it wasn’t yet evening, the sky was a murky color of gray as it always was in that city. The streets were deserted, and damp. The man’s back was bent, his head and body covered in a black cloak. He groped the gates of the city, pressing his head close to the bars. “Please,” the man pled. “Let me in.”
A guard peered through the gate, and down at the man. “Who are you, and what is your business here?”
“Please,” the man answered, “I am blind…I…”
“Blind. Ugg. Get away!” A guard thwacked a javelin against the gate. “We don’t let blind beggars into our city. Your kind are outlawed. Get away before I have a mind to throw you into the clink myself.”
The beggar jumped back, limping out of reach.
“Please sir,” A kind feminine voice pled from behind the beggar. “Can’t you help us this once?”
The Guard looked up, taken back by the warm figure of Coral standing behind the blind beggar. She threw back her cape, and let her yellow hair fall down her shoulders. Her eyes were warm, her, lips red, and her skin soft, and warmer than anything the cold city had ever felt. She locked arms with the beggar and moved to the gate, stretching her hands through the iron bars. “Couldn’t you let us in?”
The guard moved close to the gate, transfixed by Coral’s beauty. His eyes were wide. His mouth gaped open.
“Please,” she asked again. Can’t you bend the rules just once?” She reached out to touch the man. The man trembled as her warm fingers touched his cold corpselike skin.
“N...no.” he stuttered, looking shocked, frightened, and pleased all at once. “I…I…can’t.”
Coral stared at the man, her warm, dazzling eyes melting the man’s resolve. “Will you? It’s very important for me and my brother to get into the city tonight.”
The guard stared at Coral, mesmerized by her brilliance, and warmth. I…uh…” he muttered, glancing behind him, still shaking. “Um…I…don’t…know… I just…” Without realizing what he was doing, the guard unlocked the gate and opened the door.
Coral and the beggar quickly slipped inside. “Thank you,” she told the guard, she looked him straight in the face, and clasped both his hands. The warmth of her hands flooded over his body. His hands trembled as if Coral’s touch had caused his frozen soul to thaw. His frozen heart melted, sending him into convulsions. He staggered back, falling against the wall, unconscious.
Coral loomed over the man, perplexed. Then, without waiting further, she quickly turned and called to those waiting on the other side of the gate. “It is clear. Come! Hurry, before someone sees.”
At that moment, heavy footfalls and the sounds of horses were heard. First Zeechee and Sterling came through the gate, then their band of men. They all mixed into the city without been seen, for the cold hospitality of the city afforded only glassy eyes. They were not curious nor did they seem to care what went on as long as no one bothered them,
The newcomers all sieved in through the city, moving away from the busy streets and into the places where very few, except the outcasts, went.
Zeechee leaned against a damp wall and peered out on the other side. “Lancedon, you and Coral go to the heart of the city, and wait for us there. Don’t do anything to call attention to yourself. Just wait. We will be there,” Zeechee said. “Sterling, my men and I will see about emptying the prisons here, and finding where their weapons are stored. If anything happens to us, Coral get Lancedon out of the city as fast as you can.”
Before Lancedon could protest, they had all gone. Lancedon felt his way along the slimy stone walls trying to keep up with Zeechee and his departing men. But Coral stopped him. “Lancedon, keep hold of my arm. I don’t want you to get lost in this dreary place. We must stay here. Zeechee doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
Lancedon’s face clouded in anger. “This was never my plan. To lurk in the shadows! I may be blind, but I’m not helpless!”
“No, you’re not.” Coral clutched his hand, and tugged him onward. “But you are a little clumsy, and they don’t want you to get hurt. You’re too important.”
Lancedon frowned. “What you mean is that they don’t want me to get in the way!”
Coral let out a weary sigh, and pulled Lancedon along. “You are so stubborn.”
“And you’re so…” Lancedon couldn’t think of the right word. He plodded on, silent and moody, holding tightly onto Coral’s hand. They tramped through the slushy streets, suddenly hearing shouts of men and women. Coral pushed Lancedon up against a wall, and remained still.
“What is it?” Lancedon asked.
“Soldiers. They’ve got a boy.”
Lancedon’s eyes lit up. “A boy. Andrew? Who is it?”
Coral shook her head. “I don’t know who it is. I can’t tell…but his dark hair does look similar to Andrew’s. But I can’t be sure.”
“What if it is?” Lancedon’s voice grew in volume. “We’ve got to help him. If they’ve got Andrew, and he is really in this city…” his voice drifted off as the boy’s cries filled the air as the soldiers ripped off his shirt and lashed him across the back with a whip.
“Stay here!” Coral hissed, leaving the shelter of the dark corner, moving out into the street.
“Wait,” Lancedon called, stumbling after her. But she was gone. He groped in the darkness, and fell off the curb into a puddle. Angrily, he pulled himself up, back onto the curb, and sat hunched over, listened eagerly to the sounds within the street.
“Stop!” he heard Coral’s commanding, clear voice echo down the street. “Stop! Why are you whipping this poor boy?”
“Because,” a cruel voice of the soldier shot back. “He was caught with this.” The soldier held up a book, then tossed it on the ground in disgust. “He was reading a forbidden book. Such a book is against our laws to read.”
Coral’s face filled with anger. “And what is in this book that is so terrible that it has been outlawed
?”
“Lies,” the soldier shouted. “Treason. The old histories of our people, full of dangerous ideas that are outdated.”
“What kind of lies?” Coral questioned, bending down and picking up the book.
“Don’t touch that,” the soldier shouted. “Drop it! Drop it now!”
She raised her brows and stared at the soldier, as if challenging him.
“I’m warning you,” The soldier breathed. “Don’t!”
Then, as if to further aggravate him, Coral opened the book, thumbing through its pages, reading. “Lies?” she questioned. “I see no lies. Only truth.”
The soldier’s face filled with wrath. He left the boy hanging limply from the post he was tied to and stepped in Coral’s direction the whip still in his hand.
“Give me the book,” the soldier commanded.
Coral shook her head, and clutched the book to her chest. Her eyes were hard, and unbending. “No.”
“That’s it!” the guard thundered. “I warned you. GUARDS, take her! She’s worse than the boy!”
Before Coral could run, two dozen guards burst down the street and encompassed Coral. The book was ripped from her hands and tossed to the ground.
“Coral!” Lancedon cried, as the soldiers carried her off. “Coral!”
Lancedon stumbled through the street after her, feeling helpless, unable to discern where he was. Terror and fear gripped him. He was alone in this frozen, formidable city---alone and blind.
A horse thundered past him, nearly running him over. He stumbled and fell, covering his head with his hands.
When the horse had gone, he slowly groped his way through the street, his hands suddenly coming in contact with the fallen book. “The forbidden book,” he breathed, feeling its leafy pages. He opened it, and ran his fingers across the pages. He could smell the weathered smell that wafted up from the paper. It was an old book. How old he could only guess. And how it had found its way into this city was a mystery. Yet, he knew that words of all kinds had been unleashed, why not forbidden books?
“Please,” a pain-filled voice of the trapped boy cried. “Help me.”
Lancedon slowly pushed himself up, and turned in the direction of the voice. “Help you? Of course. Where are you? You must keep talking to me. For I am blind. I cannot see where you are.”
“Over here,” the boy’s voice called. “Quickly, before the soldiers come back.”
Lancedon stumbled over to the boy, closer and closer until he reached a long pole sticking out of the ground to which the boy was tied.
“Good. You’re almost there,” the boy encouraged him. “Up a little further. Do you feel that rope? My hands are tied to this post. Do you have a knife?”
“A knife?” Lancedon scoffed. “I have a sword, and a knife, and a dagger. Which one do you want?” Lancedon fingered the rope, and then felt the boy’s hands, searching for the diamond mark that was sure to reveal who this boy was. “What is your name?” Lancedon asked.
“Drew,” the boy answered.
“What?” Lancedon asked. “Andrew?” He felt the boy’s face, running his hands through the boy’s hair, feeling every inch of him.
“No. The boy shouted. “Drew, that is my name. Hey. Will you stop touching my face!”
Lancedon’s face drained of all color. “Drew? Oh…” Lancedon’s voice fell flat as he felt the boy’s ordinary hands. “Well, Drew, you’re not Andrew. But your voice sounds very much like his.”
“The knife,” the boy urged him. “Do you have one?”
Lancedon nodded, and quickly withdrew a dagger.
“Careful,” Drew warned him. “That’s my hand.”
“I know,” Lancedon retorted, feeling his way along the rope, and carefully slicing it.
The boy suddenly bolted, taking off down the street.
“Wait,” Lancedon called, holding up the boy’s book. “Your book.”
The boy glanced behind him and shook his head. “You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore.”
With that, the boy vanished down the road, leaving Lancedon standing there with the book in his hands. “That’s gratitude for you.”
Lancedon stared blankly ahead after the ungrateful boy. He had wanted to ask him for help. Now he was just as lost as he was before. Angry, he stuffed the book in the crook of his arm, and felt his way along the streets. “Stupid boy,” Lancedon cussed, stumbling over the uneven ground. “Should have left him where he was.”
He stumbled through the streets, feeling very disoriented and frustrated. He had no way of knowing where they had taken Coral, where Sterling or Zeechee were or where anyone was. Or where he was. Zeechee had been right. He should have never come to this horrid city. He had thought he had caught the scent of something good in this city, some hint that the released words of truth had found their way within its walls. But now, here, alone, among these strangers in the cold streets, all he could smell was filth. Growing angrier by the minute, he felt his way through the streets, faster and faster, suddenly crashing into the chest of an oncoming stranger. The blow knocked him off balance and sent him flying onto ground
“Move out of my way,” the man shouted, pressing past him.
Lancedon rubbed his head. Then he pushed himself back up, feeling the heat rise to his face in embarrassment.
“Please,” he cried, “I need help. Can anyone tell me where I am?”
“You’re in the way, that’s where,” a woman shouted, shoving on past him.
“Please,” he cried, trying to stand back up. “I need help.” All around him he could hear the buzz of people, and the splash of wheels and feet sloshing through the puddle-ridden streets.
“Asking for help is illegal,” a voice shot back. “Go back to the cracks where you came from, or you’ll really get it. No crack dwellers are wanted here. Go back to the scum that spawned you.”
“I don’t want help,” Lancedon argued. “I just need directions.”
“Asking for directions is also against the law!” a nasally voice thundered. A stiff hand pressed his face back against the ground, filling his nostrils with slush, and mud. He struggled against his unseen enemy, until he could stand it no longer. Angry, he drew his sword, and threw the man off him.
“Get away from me!” he shouted. “Get back!”
The crowd of onlookers who had taken some amusement in the goings on, gasped and drew back. Shouts of dismay and horror rippled through the crowd.
“He’s got a sword. A blind man. He has a sword. That has got to be very illegal. He could really hurt someone.”
“No,” Lancedon assured them. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You already have,” a hate-filled voice spat. “You have been seen in the streets. Our children have seen you. A blind man, someone deformed and disgusting. You and your kind are not welcome here.”
Lancedon stared ahead, his sword ready in his hands. If he was to die, then so be it. With a book, in the crook of his arm, and a sword in the another, it did not matter that he could not see his enemy. The hate he felt coming from these strangers was proof enough of the degenerate generation that populated this city.
“Grab him!” a voice screeched. “GET HIM!”
Before Lancedon knew what happened, someone jumped him from behind. The sword clattered from his hands and the book fell to the ground. He gasped as someone punched the air from his chest, and forced him to the ground. Swarms of people surrounded him and dragged to the town square, before the most high judge Willcicle.
“Let me go,” Lancedon roared, thrashing as he was thrown to the hard pavement before their judge.
“Here he is, your honor,” the voice of his captor said in a cool tone. “We found him with these.” The man dropped Lancedon’s sword and book at the judge’s feet.
Lancedon lunged towards his lost weapon, but someone with a very large foot stepped on it.
“This is quite disturbing,” Judge Willcicle said, probing Lancedon’s neck with the edge of a golden rod to b
etter inspect Lancedon’s face. “Ah, a blind man. A blind man with a book, and a sword. Perhaps this has some great meaning, some insight into what he is reading. Perhaps the evil words made him blind. Perhaps the book itself has boggled his mind and fogged his vision. Perhaps the book has provoked him to carry a sword, a sword that he could commit worse crimes with.”
The crowd gathering around them gasped with fear, and trepidation.
“Yes, this is a great crime, a great evil,” the judge’s voice rang on. His voice was loud and thick, as if his tongue was much too large for his mouth. “How very peculiar. How very odd. How very strange. Pray tell me what is it that you find so interesting in that book of yours? And a sword, why bear you a sword? The blind have no need for weapons, nor words.”
“The blind have many uses for weapons, and words,” Lancedon replied, “both are powerful, and both as sharp as they are dangerous.” The man scowled at Lancedon with distain. He walked around Lancedon, inspecting the blind warrior with careful eyes. “Words, and swords are dangerous…yes. They are very dangerous. Too dangerous. Only a few are privileged to wield such things. Only those with the proper authority. You, are not one of those.”
Lancedon straightened himself and faced the man as if he really saw the man standing before him in all his pomp and fine clothes. “It is the not a privilege, or a right to bear such things. No. It is our divine heritage. To learn, to read, to bear arms, and defend oneself is intrinsically ours. Just as an animal is born with claws, it is our duty to use what we have been given to defend what is naturally ours. Just as we do not need permission to breathe, we do not need someone to tell us that we can or can’t do, how we can or can’t live. Nor are some people more worthy of breathing. Nor does one require a right to breath. It is inherently ours, to breathe, and live. To live as free men!”
