The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  He couldn’t help it. He was sick on the cobblestones. His uncle glared at him. Mahmoud grinned. The tyrant nodded, and Mahmoud led the way through the yard, to a door at the far end. Omar and his uncle followed, the former dragged along by the latter. Omar was as limp as lettuce, and his uncle was not tender in his handling. But Omar did not notice the pain. He was in a place from which hope had fled long ago. He was in the dark heart of his uncle’s kingdom, from which none ever emerged. He was staring into the very face of the monster; into the eyes that would turn you to stone. This prison was the essential truth of The Vampire; this was what the man had become. The man who once, long ago, had been a child in his mother’s arms. The man who once, long ago, had played with his older brother – whom later, he murdered.

  They passed through the door. Beyond was a long dark corridor. At the end of it was a man sitting at a desk. He jumped up smartly when he saw the tyrant, a look of mingled consternation and amazement on his face. The Vampire hushed him impatiently, and he, Mahmoud and the man at the desk had a whispered conversation Omar did not even try to hear. He was listening to other sounds – muffled, dull sounds that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. Suddenly, his courage – or resignation – in the car on the way here seemed a stupid, a pitiful thing. It was all very well to think that he’d rather be dead or mad, but now, in this place, he could feel all the crippling power of evil, the way it thrived on secrecy and terror, and he thought his heart might give way. Stop it, he told himself. Stop it. You’ve seen nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing really, so far. It’s all suggestion, and you’re scared even of the shadow of the truth. How will you be when you are faced with the real thing?

  They set off again. Down some stairs, through another corridor, catching just a glimpse of a row of cage-like cells with crippled, tortured wretches barely recognisable as humans slumped in the corners. Past a closed iron door, from behind which could be clearly heard screams and groans; down some more stairs, through a dark, close catacomb, lit only by a flare Mahmoud held above his head; and into a stinking, gloomy chamber whose walls were damp and patched with moss and mould. Scuttling noises at their feet and vicious, shrill squeaks proclaimed the presence of rats. Neither Mahmoud nor the tyrant flinched at all. Omar had to bite painfully down on his lip to keep himself from screaming.

  They kept walking. Where were they taking him? They had passed the torture chambers, he was fairly sure of that. Were they going to immure him in the deepest bowels of this evil place? Were they going to leave him with the rats and the dark till he should ‘come to his senses’ and accept his fate as the tyrant’s heir?

  They passed through the chamber and came to another door. It was locked. Mahmoud had opened all the doors till then, but now, the tyrant took a key out of his own pocket and fitted it into the lock.

  ‘Get back to your duties now, Mahmoud,’ he said. ‘We won’t be needing you. Come for us in an hour’s time.’

  The man nodded and went away. The tyrant opened the door and pushed Omar into the room beyond.

  They were in a dimly lit cell. A flame burnt fitfully in a lamp on the wall. There was an iron table in one corner, chained to the floor, and a narrow bed, with a pile of smelly rags underneath it, chained in another corner, and a bucket close by it. Otherwise, the room appeared to be empty. Omar turned to his uncle, who was not making a sound, or a movement.

  ‘I am –’ he began, trying to sound defiant, but the tyrant hushed him. Then he put two fingers up to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Silence; then there was a rustle, somewhere near the bed. Omar’s uncle smiled. He put his fingers to his mouth again and whistled, once, twice, three times.

  He crooned, ‘Come, come, come, no-one will hurt you.’

  The pile of rags under the bed began to heave. As Omar watched transfixed, slowly, first a hand, then a horrible head lifted itself from the foul rags. The hand – or was it a paw? – was not white so much as grey, the skin loose and wrinkled, the fingernails long and curved like claws. As to the head, it made Omar cry out in horror: it appeared to be made of metal, surmounted by tangled fur. A blink of a second; then he saw the creature wore a mask, a blank metal mask that appeared to be almost welded onto its face, and that the fur was tangled hair, giving it a hideous inhuman look, half-robot, half-animal. The wild, unfocused dark eyes were the only living things that could be seen on the awful metal face.

  The rest of the body uncoiled slowly from its smelly nest, and the creature crawled out from under the bed and crouched in a broken-backed sort of way at the tyrant’s feet, the wild eyes glaring up. Omar saw that one of its hands and one of its legs were also made of metal. But he knew, in an instant of terror and pity too great to describe, that the poor thing had once been human.

  ‘I’ve brought someone here to see you,’ said the tyrant. To Omar’s astonishment, he squatted down beside the creature and touched it gently on the fleshy hand. The creature moaned, jerked back, and looked at the tyrant with a terrible look, half-pleading, half-angry.

  ‘Well, Omar?’ said his uncle. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ He stroked the creature’s hair, and crooned. ‘He’s scared of you, you see. Come down here, Omar, let me introduce you.’ He smiled up at Omar. ‘Or are you going to take refuge in your cowardice once again – cowardice that masquerades as squeamishness? Get down here, Omar. Get down – and look into the face of your father.’

  Omar dropped to the floor. His legs just folded. His heart seemed to stop. The blood rushed into his ears. Through its roaring, he heard a scream, coming from far away. It was some time before he realised it was he who was screaming, and that he couldn’t stop. He could feel his uncle shaking him, slapping him, shouting, but nothing mattered, nothing had any effect. He could see the creature had rolled itself into a ball and was shaking, snarling, growling, squealing. He’d thought before that he had steeled himself for torture, for death. He’d known nothing. Nothing! Nothing ever could have prepared him for this moment.

  Through a haze of pain, he began to distinguish words.

  ‘Fool … coward … listen … I’d never kill my own blood … never … made vow … never … I never break vows, never … was accident … plane … pulled from wreckage … half-dead … crippled, burnt all over … lost hand, leg, face … can’t you see? Can’t you see?’

  Now he heard the words plainly, as his uncle shook him, glared into his face with those hard black-marble eyes, slapped him, shouted in a paroxysm of rage, ‘My friends wanted me to kill him. There were papers on that plane that proved he was a traitor. He was on his way to get help from abroad, help to invade our country and restore the corrupt monarchy. But I had made a vow – never to kill my own flesh and blood. Never. I made a vow to God to protect me and favour my cause. And I have kept my promise. See! Your father is not dead. His plane crashed. It was an accident – or the will of God. And see, I had him patched up! With long and patient skill, he was brought back to life. But you must understand, I could not allow him to be free. I could not allow him to walk the streets. I could not allow anyone even to know he was alive. Only Faisal knows the full truth; everyone else thinks this is just another prisoner. I had all the witnesses killed; I could spare no-one. But you understand, I saved him. I saved him when I could have killed him.’

  The tyrant glared at Omar.

  ‘And yet he would have struck against me, whenever he could. He had no scruples about it; he cared little that I was his brother. He said I was evil. He said I was a monster, that I was a killer. But it was I – I – who had the goodwill of God, and on whom providence smiled!’

  Omar could not speak. From out of the corner of his eye he could see the convulsive movements of the creature as it jerked in its fit. He felt completely bereft. He recoiled as his uncle gave him a stinging slap.

  ‘What are you doing, staring like that? Do you think I have made him like that? He has not been tortured or touched in any way, save in kindness, as I showed you. But underneath all that bravery of his, undernea
th all that swagger, he was weak, hollow, empty. He went mad. His mind was weak. It gave way. That is all.’

  Omar found his words. ‘He has been here since I was a baby. He’s been here all that time. Mother didn’t know.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. Do you think I’d have told that deluded, timid fool anything? Better to let her suspect I’d killed her husband; at least she’d know who was master here.’

  ‘All this time … he’s been here … Mother mourned for him. And he was here. I longed to know him, as did Mariam. And he was here.’

  ‘Do I have to repeat myself a hundred times? Yes.’ Omar’s uncle smiled. ‘You longed to know him? Well, here he is. Is he how you imagined, your hero of a father?’

  Omar looked into his uncle’s eyes for just one terrible instant, and in that instant all his fear of this man, of his power, of the baleful, sorcerous spell he had cast over him and over the whole country, left him completely. He moved so swiftly that his uncle did not even have time to react. He fell backwards, crying out in surprise, hard against the leg of the table. Omar heard the crack, quite loud, and saw his uncle’s eyes roll back into unconsciousness. But he took no notice. The tyrant didn’t matter, not any more, not to Omar.

  He crawled over to the creature, which was now huddled in a corner of the cell, its head down on its knees, crying to itself, and rocking.

  Omar touched it, timidly, and whispered, ‘Father?’ He shuddered as the poor wrecked thing that was his father wept and shook. ‘Father, it is me. It is Omar, your son … your son.’

  The metal head lifted. The wild dark eyes looked into his. He heard a sound, midway between a groan and a gasp. The tears rolling down his face, he crept closer to the prisoner and said, ‘Father … Father … please, don’t you recognise me? It is me, Omar, your son.’

  What a fool he was, saying such things to the poor madman. Even if he could penetrate through to that fogged brain, why would he recognise Omar, whom he hadn’t seen since he was a babe in arms? Weeping, he stroked the man’s trembling shoulder. He put his arms around the man, calling him, ‘Father, Father …’ Though the madman did not resist, though his eyes stayed fixed on Omar, he did not speak, or respond in any other way. Omar thought, he is lost, lost, lost … his soul has wandered away for good – he is even worse than Latifa was, under the Spell of Darkness.

  The Spell of Darkness! This madness was surely like the Spell of Darkness. There was still nablaylee left … perhaps there was hope?

  There was a groan from behind him. Omar whirled around. His uncle was coming to. He could not stay here – and he could not leave his father here, either. He rushed to his uncle’s side and extracted the key of the cell from his pocket. His uncle groaned and moaned, but did not yet move.

  Quickly, Omar went back to the madman and said, ‘Father, I am taking you out of here. But you must do as I say. You must be quiet. You must try and walk. Please.’ He looked into the mad eyes, and took the fleshy hand and kissed it, repressing a feeling of disgust as he did so. ‘Do you understand me, Father?’

  The eyes stared into his. The madman made no response, but he did not resist as Omar carefully, gingerly, helped him to his feet. He swayed and would have fallen if Omar had not supported him.

  ‘We’ll walk to the door, close it and lock him inside, and then head out through the passages into the sewers under the city,’ said Omar, more confidently than he felt. In truth, he didn’t know for sure that the Black Prison was linked to the underground tunnels he and Latifa had used the day of the ambush.

  He managed to get his father through the door, then, holding him with one hand, he closed and locked the door with the other. He thought of his uncle waking up from his unconsciousness to discover himself alone and locked in, and gave a grim smile.

  He took a better grip of his father and breathed a deep, heartfelt prayer. They were in the dark chamber adjacent to the cell. Several passageways came off the chamber and Omar picked one to head down. It was hard to drag his father along; he was not helping much, and he kept crying and shaking. But at least he was walking, or rather, limping. Omar must get his father out of this hell. He must try and get him out into the sunlight, even for a second, even if he himself died in the effort.

  Twenty-five

  The passage was very dim, and stank of the puddles of stagnant water that lay on the floor. It went gradually downwards, and after they had gone a certain distance, the water at their feet started to get deeper. It had never been very bright in the passage, but now it got so dark that Omar could only feel his way along. He thought, please God, let this be a way out, let us escape, if only for a second, please, God. Please, please.

  His face was wet with tears that he didn’t even know he was shedding, his feet wet from the stinking water, his hand wet with the sweated effort of helping his father along. Then suddenly, he heard his father speak, or rather, groan, softly. It was not really a word he said, more an ‘Oh,’ but it sounded more human than anything else he’d heard coming from behind that dreadful mask.

  Omar said, ‘Yes, Father, yes. I promise you. I promise you. We’ll get out. God will help us. God will help us, you see.’

  His father sighed. Once again, though it wasn’t a word it made Omar’s heart leap with a sudden, anguished hope.

  ‘Yes, Father. It will be over. It will soon be over. The darkness will end. It will end, Father, and dawn will be ours!’

  What am I saying, he scolded himself – foolish things. But his father seemed to take some kind of comfort from them, for his step seemed to be a little firmer, his grip on Omar a little more definite.

  Omar listened to the splashing of the water as it swished around his ankles and then his calves. The more they went, the more the water rose, slowly, but inexorably. Slowly, but inexorably, Omar realised they must have taken the wrong passage.

  Yet there was no way back. He knew that. They had come too far. It was at least fifteen or twenty minutes since they’d left the cell. Mahmoud would be there very soon. He’d find out what had happened. He might waste a bit of time trying to find a key for the lock – or he might send searchers out for them straightaway.

  ‘Quickly, Father,’ he said, urging his father on through the deepening water. The madman did not seem to be afraid of the water, or even to notice it was there. He went on in the same painfully slow way, leaning on Omar.

  Suddenly, the passage dipped down, sharply. Omar lost his footing. With a cry of panic, he clutched at his father, trying to hold him up. The madman was struggling now, pushing at Omar, shoving him further into the water.

  Omar yelped, and cried, ‘Father! Father! No! You must swim! You must swim!’

  Then he lost his grip, and went under. He surfaced, gasping, having swallowed some foul water. He desperately looked around for his father. There he was, bobbing peacefully on the water, as if nothing had happened. Omar groaned, and swam over to him.

  ‘Father, please, we’re going to have to swim out of here now.’

  But where? The passage had funnelled them down into a great black basin of stinking water, and it was hard to see the end of it. It spread everywhere that he could see, like a great black sheet. Omar could have wept with frustration.

  Suddenly, he heard a sound – like someone hailing him, calling, ‘Hey!’ His heart jumped into his mouth. They had found them already. He held on to his oblivious, happily paddling father, and thought, well, at least we’ll die in each other’s arms, at least we’ll …

  Something grasped him from underneath: a strong hand, clutching at his ankle. In the next instant, a face bobbed up into view, breaking the surface of the water. It was a frogman. Not a frogman in diving gear, but a man who looked half-human, half-frog, with pop eyes, glistening green skin, long, elegant limbs and webbed fingers.

  It was difficult to say who was the most surprised. The frogman spoke first: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We are escaping from the Black Prison,’ said Omar, too amazed not to answer.

  The frogm
an grinned and said, ‘Good. I’ll help you. I think there’s time for that. And you can tell ’em back at base how the land lies around here.’

  ‘Who are you?’ breathed Omar.

  ‘I’m Miyar, from Mydannar.’

  ‘Of course, you’re a Marshlander!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the frogman, staring curiously at Omar’s father. ‘I say, my friend, your mate looks a little the worse for wear. Never seen a metal-man before.’

  ‘He’s not really a metal-man,’ said Omar, looking at his father, who still paddled happily. ‘He’s my father, my poor father, who’s been a cripple for a long time, and locked up for so long in the Black Prison that he cannot even speak any more.’

  The Marshlander’s bright face sobered. ‘Poor devil,’ he said. ‘There’s so many like that, in Mesomia. But our Army’s here now. We are thousands and thousands strong, having come on flying carpets from all the corners of this land. The great Arga of Kirtis, Gur Thalab, is at the head of the Army, and our friends from abroad have pledged to help us. The end is nigh, my friend! We’re going to down the tyrant and kill him and all his kin and all his friends.’

  Omar blanched. ‘You said you could help us out. Can you, please? Only I don’t think it is healthy for my father in this smelly water, and I want to get him into the sunlight. He hasn’t seen it for a long time, you know.’