“Is it enough?”
“We will need more, my King.”
“Then take more blood!” he roared.
“My King, it is making you weak and for your wellbeing your body needs to recover the lost volume. The recovery process will need at least a few days if not more.”
“Find another way.” hissed King Gomorrah narrowing his eyes.
“My King.” answered the enchanter bowing low.
He scuttled over to the table and picked up the pewter bowl and carefully carried it to the door before pausing and looking back over his shoulder at the King.
“There are others with your blood in their veins.” he said softly.
Silence descended on the room and Mordechai licked his lips nervously before turning to leave the chamber when suddenly the King’s voice sounded.
“Send for Agamemnon immediately.”
“My Lord.”
With his mood darkening King Gomorrah adjusted his huge frame on the mattress and stared up at the richly embroidered hangings that fell from the ceiling to the bedding that were held back by metal hooks in the bedposts. It made him think of his wife Queen Eleanor and his mood blackened still. She had loved color and no sooner had they wed she had turned a grey, dull room into a chamber awash with fabrics and Taffetas of deep reds and purples frilled with tassels. At the time he had tolerated it, like she had tolerated his frequent whoring and misdeeds but now it felt like an after-death visitation from her, a constant reminder of a disastrous marriage of convenience between two noble houses rather than love. When King Ethelred had died suddenly, he had done so without leaving a son as heir to the throne and as half-brother Gomorrah had acted brutally quickly. Tensions between prominent noble families were high and claimants battled for the power of the throne so he had strengthened his claim by uniting two powerful noble houses and hiring assassins to kill off any pretenders or rivals that dared to assert their recognition as ruler over Tarlath. But the bloodshed didn’t end there, anyone that didn’t bend their knee and support his claim to the throne fell to the sword until it was almost extermination. He took up the throne and as part of the arrangement in the joining of the two noble houses Gomorrah had agreed to marry the youngest daughter of Lord Peregrine who was a thin red-haired girl named Lady Eleanor. It was a political faction that soured as quickly as it had started.
Where Gomorrah was hard-headed and quick tempered she was equally as so.
He was surly and dangerous where she was cold and calculating and roused him to anger more than any feuding nobleman ever could. They didn’t have much of a relationship at all and took to sleeping in separate quarters no more than a week after the Royal wedding. The marriage was under great pressure and had not gone unnoticed from disaffected members of the noble house of Lord Peregrine.
“Such unions should produce children!” Lord Peregrine had demanded.
Late that night King Gomorrah had been stinking drunk and in a foul mood. He had been so inebriated that he couldn't even walk in a straight line and had staggered to the Queen’s bedchamber and burst through the door.
“You must give me a son!” he had shouted at her. “I will not befall the same fate as my weak half-brother.”
“On your very best day your half-brother would still be twice the man you will ever be!” she had hissed back at him.
His fury on that occasion had been terrible. With a scream of rage Gomorrah had straddled her and tore at her undergarments. She had slapped his face viciously but he had been too big and too strong, full of anger and hatred and had raped the Queen with her eyes burning in hatred as he did so. The next night the body of Lord Peregrine was discovered in his personal chamber with his throat slashed. Now, three years on from her death by the disease which had consumed her Gomorrah was left with a five year old child conceived in rape, a daughter with learning problems who was the image of her mother with long red-hair and who was slight of frame. When he looked into her unfocused dark eyes he saw the Queen staring back at him and it was nothing more than a constant visual reminder that stirred his anger like the richly embroidered hangings above his bed.
With a muttered curse King Gomorrah pushed himself to the edge of the bed and with a grunt stood up feeling slightly light-headed as he did so. He stepped out onto the open balcony, gripped the stone wall railing with his pudgy fingers and stared out over the city, still lost in thought as a chill wind whispered gently in his ear.
When the sweating sickness had taken hold of the Queen it wouldn’t go away. Confined to her bed with fever and wracked by aches he had called upon Mordechai and watched on with his face devoid of emotion as the illness strengthened with bouts of vomiting, intense chills followed by profuse sweating, chest pain then shortness of breath.
“Is there any hope?” asked Gomorrah gruffly.
But the enchanter’s eyes had already told him the answer.
“Leave us.” he had commanded.
When they were alone he had stood over the bed staring down at the Queen as her ragged breathing rattled around in her throat. It had been an extraordinarily quick change in such a short period of time. Where once she was so fierce and scornful she was now nothing more than wretched and insignificant, reduced to a shell of a woman she had been the day previous. But despite it all, even though the sickness ravaged her he still caught the occasional glimpses of hatred as her lips momentarily curled back.
“Will you go to your death hating me?” he had asked with a cruel smile.
The Queen had grimaced in pain with a waxy sheen of sweat glistening on her skin plastering her red hair to her forehead.
“I don’t hate…you…I pity you!” she uttered through gritted teeth.
Gomorrah had chuckled but there was no humor in the sound.
“Even close to death you have the tongue of a viper.” he said.
“You are ill-equipped to be the King, Gomorrah, and you will never be loved by the common people.”
“I do not need their love, just their servitude!” he had snapped.
A weak smile flickered across the Queen’s lips then she gagged and made a retching noise before turning her head to the side and vomiting up a white-foamy bile which snaked down her face onto the bed.
“As ruthless as ever,” she finally said with a wheeze. “You took the crown by bloody force and you had my father killed. Your greed can never be satisfied and you can’t escape from it and even if you fulfill your every desire you still won't be able to live a happy life.”
Her breathing was becoming weaker and more strained as Gomorrah stood there with his arms folded across his massive chest.
“You will not stop,” she said breathlessly. “Your greed will see the whole kingdom brought to its knees.”
Gomorrah could see that she was deteriorating quickly and knew it would be just a short matter of time.
“You are close. Shall I send for your daughter?”
“Our daughter!” hissed the Queen.
“Shall I send for her?”
The Queen slowly shook her head from side-to-side with tears forming in her eyes.
“Do not let her see me like this.”
Gomorrah had stayed with her till the end. He didn’t offer the Queen any comfort or hold her hand. He just stayed there. When the moon had hung high in the sky that night she had been unresponsive and then finally when the morning came she had taken her last breath.
Now with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon her final cutting words echoed around in his head as he gazed out over the city.
‘Your greed can never be satisfied and you can’t escape from it and even if you fulfill your every desire you still won't be able to live a happy life.’
“You were wrong, Eleanor,” said Gomorrah. “It wasn't greed it was ambition and an ambitious King needs to conquer new lands.”
But even now he could still see the burning hatred in her eyes when he thought of her, defying him to the very end with the last flutter of her pulse.
“I am accountable to no-one,” he growled to nobody. “I am the King!”
Gomorrah had made Tarlath a powerful, fearsome nation but not a wealthy one and funds were now running low. His Master of Coin, Athelardus, had pleaded with him to grant his attendance and review the state of the Royal finances.
“The situation is precarious, my King,” Athelardus had said nervously. “You have secured the throne and built an army unbeaten on the field of battle but it has come at a huge cost. The coffers are nearly depleted and a standing army of fifty thousand men must be fed and must be clothed.”
“That is what taxation is for!” snapped Gomorrah angrily.
“My King, even with extra taxes the money is running out and in some places the tax collectors have been met with resistance.”
“Then we force the villagers to house and feed the army!” he had roared. “After all we are protecting them.”
“Most honored King,” said the Master of Coin choosing his words carefully. “We have limited provisions and the food stores are not inexhaustible. We must consider our options. As we are not at war, can I suggest we reduce our army to a less number than it consists of at present?”
“We are always at war, Treasurer. There will always be new conflicts and new enemies to face. Maybe I will build myself an army of Meldlings. A Melding is more powerful than one hundred fighting men and does not require payment, merely feeding. The thought is a pleasing one.”
So they had pored over the financial records but after a while Gomorrah had slammed his meaty fist down onto the wooden table before sweeping the contents to the ground. With a gasp of shock Athelardus had stared at the parchments and quill pen scattered on the floor and backed away from the fury in the King’s stare.
“Your words are like a nest of angry wasps in my head!” yelled Gomorrah. “I ought to cut your lying blackened tongue out.”
“But my King…revenue has stagnated.” whimpered Athelardus shrinking back.
“You have the skill with finances, is that not your duty?”
“Yes…yes, my King.”
King Gomorrah had narrowed his eyes and stared long and hard at the Master of Coin. He was a short ugly man with a hunched peculiar frame that was almost deformed and had a crooked nose, darting eyes which carried a nervous twitch, greasy long grey hair, a whitish-grey wispy beard and a whiney high-pitched voice. But what he lacked in his vulgar appearance he was blessed in other areas and was a man of great learning and with a keen eye for numbers.
“You are hardly frugal in your appearance, Athelardus,” hissed Gomorrah. “You wear only the richest of clothing and frequent only the most expensive of brothels yet you stand here begging me to listen about finances? It seems to me that if one of my richest of subjects cannot secure enough wealth to keep a standing army then I have no use for him.”
Athelardus turned pale and opened and closed his mouth but no sound would come out and the King chuckled coldly.
“See, I have your tongue already under my control.”
“We will find a way, my King,” he whispered. “I promise you.”
“You will find a way,” said Gomorrah with his dark eyes glinting. “If you do not, then I will take your tongue and no-one will be able to hear you scream as my Meldlings feast on your flesh.”
“We could take the South, my King. The Piathaleas could not withstand your might. If we conquered them we could dominate the seas and take over the lucrative trade routes of the waters. It would speed up commerce and generate wealth. In the West lay the gold and silver mines of the Nakaloo. They contain unparalleled wealth and if we conquered the territory we would have more money than we know what to do with. If we had more of your…Meldings, we could be an unstoppable invading force.”
Gomorrah had pictured an army of his creatures and a shiver of pleasure had coursed through him.
Suddenly his thoughts were snapped back to the present as he heard a knock at his chamber door.
“Enter.” said King Gomorrah turning from his balcony and stepping back into the room as Agamemnon opened the door and entered. He was without his armor or sword and wore nothing but a simple white robe tied at the waist with a belt and leather sandals and his hair which was usually tied back at the nape of his neck hung loose.
“My King.” he said bowing low.
Gomorrah nodded his acknowledgment and wandered over to a table and poured himself a goblet of wine and drank thirstily as the swordsman stared at him in silence.
“I am troubled, Agamemnon.” he said wiping his beard with his hand.
“What ails you, my King?”
“Dark forces are gathering, forces than cannot be cut down with a blade.”
“I have yet to meet anything that cannot be cut by my blade, my King.”
“Let us pray you do not have to, Agamemnon. Mordechai is besieged by bad omens and has delivered unfavorable readings. There are demons at work within the castle walls, demons that attack my bloodline.”
“Your daughter, my King?”
A minor flick of irritation passed over Gomorrah’s face and he nodded his head.
“My daughter is demon-possessed and suffering terribly. For the good of the kingdom and the safety of your King she must be dealt with immediately.”
“You want me to kill your daughter, my King?”
“A King must make terrible decisions and I will have to live with it for the rest of my life.”
“It will be as you say, my King.”
But the anger in the swordsman’s voice was unmistakable. Agamemnon bowed stiffly and turned to leave but Gomorrah spoke once again.
“The room is unguarded. But do it gently, smother her and do not cut. Then inform Mordechai immediately when it’s done.”
“Yes, my King.”
A few minutes later Agamemnon strode back into his room and walked straight past the naked woman sprawled on his bed without even acknowledging she was there.
“What was so important that the King had you summoned from my arms, my love?” called out the whore in a husky voice.
Ignoring her, the swordsman stripped himself of his robe and flung it to the floor before walking over to a large wooden chest in the corner of the chamber.
“You know, you look tense,” she purred with a smile. “I just have the perfect idea of how I can help you relax. Come, return to bed.”
He opened the chest and discarded his iron breast plate to one side then shrugged on some coarse brown woollen breeches. Next he slipped into a linen undershirt and then a snug-fitting blue doublet. Pausing Agamemnon turned and stared around the room, located his riding boots and grabbed them hastily and perched himself on the edge of the bed and shoved them on.
“You’re looking very flushed, my love.” said the whore from close behind him.
Her hands moved up over him, gently massaging his back in lazy circles with a caress as soft as silk but he still disregarded the woman. The swordsman surveyed the room again and sighed before standing back up and collecting his baldric of knives which he had thrown on the floor before their earlier lovemaking. He fastened it across his chest diagonally then threw his dark long cloak around his broad shoulders which he secured with a silver broach.
“What’s going on, Agam?” she asked in a little voice.
This time Agamemnon looked at her and moved back over to the bed and knelt on it with one leg. He kissed her head several times and tenderly ran his hand through her long brown tousled hair.
“Do you trust me?” he asked pushing her to arm’s length and staring hard at her.
“You're scaring me,” she whimpered searching his face. “What is wrong?”
“Do you trust me, Giliane?” he repeated a little more firmly.
The whore nodded her head as Agamemnon reached behind his head and tied his hair back with a piece of light twine from his inside cloak pocket.
“Giliane, please listen to me, we must leave tonight, you will understand later.”
“We have to leave tonig
ht?” she recoiled bringing her bare knees up to her stomach. “But why?”
“We need to get out of here.”
“What have you done, Agam?” whispered the whore fearfully.
“It’s not what I have done; it’s what I am supposed to do. The King has asked me to do something I cannot.”
“Then speak to him. You are close to the King and your place is here protecting the realm.”
“Once perhaps, but not anymore and now the King has that cursed enchanter, Mordechai, whispering poison in his ear and filling his head full of dark thoughts. Gomorrah is not the same King that I swore my oath of fealty to and I will not raise my sword against an innocent.”
“I…I do not understand. Where will we go?”
“I don’t know,” muttered Agamemnon darkly. “The Kings reach is long, maybe somewhere across the waters to the South.”
“And what will you become?” asked Giliane starting to sound angry. “Will you become nothing more than a mercenary for hire selling your services to the highest bidder?”
“I am skilled in the business of death and a man with a good sword arm will always find work.”
“Will we sleep rough like common peasants and have rocks for pillows? Will we wander from town to town hungry and looking for coin? Here we are safe. We live in a stone castle; we are warm in the winter and cool in summer. We have chambers, food and clothing and make love when we want. Why would you want to leave all that behind?”
“Spoken like a true whore!” hissed Agamemnon angrily. “You don’t love me, Giliane you love what I represent and what I can give you and are only interested in your own needs. You may warm my bed but if you choose to stay then I will not come back for you.”
“Then what would you have me become, oh great sword-master?” she cried with tears forming in her eyes. “Would I stay at home like a dutiful wife? Cook and bake bread, weave some garments for you? What about me?”
“I don’t have all the answers,” muttered Agamemnon with his anger fading. “I wish I did, truly I do. If I refuse the King he would have me executed on the spot and if I carry out his command I would have the blood of a child on my hands. I do not want to die, Giliane. I am too young and have too much I would like to do in this life before I meet my end.”
Four Gods Page 5
