Four Gods

by Sebastian H. Alive

  “This falls at your feet, Hermes!” snapped Gomorrah with his fleshy neck wobbling.

  “My man was struck from behind but as Captain of the Guards I take full responsibility for the incident, my King.”

  “It was sheer incompetence. What next? You let in a horde of murderous Nakaloo to rape our women and children in their beds and slaughter our men? The Guard has the absolute responsibility for the safety of their Sovereign.”

  “I have failed you my King and the man in question should be punished appropriately to act as a deterrent.” said Hermes.

  With his anger fading Gomorrah sighed and turned back to the table. Grabbing another goblet he poured himself a measure of wine then drained it in one long swallow.

  “At least you have the balls to accept responsibility, Hermes. I need people like you. If any good can come from this horse dung it’s that it has shown where that traitor’s loyalties lie.”

  “And what of the traitor Agamemnon, my King?”

  Gomorrah paused just as he was about to fill his cup once again and looked over his shoulder at the Captain of the Guards.

  “He will not escape for long,” he said narrowing his beady eyes. “The traitor was your friend, was he not?”

  “He was a weak and doubtful man my King and a weak man has no place by the side of the most powerful man in the land.”

  “You need to be vigilant, Hermes. There are traitors everywhere!” whispered Gomorrah as his clouded eyes roamed suspiciously around the chamber. “I will kill them all, every cursed one of them.”

  “Powerful rulers will always attract jealousy and resentfulness, my King.”

  “Are you loyal?” spat the King disdainfully.

  “My loyalty is to you and the crown, my King.”

  Seemingly satisfied with the answer Gomorrah grunted and poured himself some more wine, spilling some of the contents on the table carpet as he did so.

  “Shall I send men?” asked Hermes.

  “No, he would kill the men. I have a Meldling tracking him and the slow-witted child as we speak.”

  “The Princess will be in great danger, my King?”

  “It is tragic that she would be caught up in this but the girl is under demonic influence and there is no hope. It will be a release for the child and I shall mourn greatly.”

  Hermes nodded his head in understanding as Gomorrah drank from the goblet slowly.

  “Is that all, my King?” he asked.

  The King hissed between his teeth and looked at Hermes with a menacing stare.

  “Bring me his whore and the Gatekeeper immediately.”

  “At once, my King.” he replied bowing low before turning on his heel and walking towards the chamber door.

  “Have the stable boy flogged as well.” added Gomorrah turning his back on the man as he left the room.

  With a grunt of pain the King rubbed his throbbing temple with his thick fingers and placed the cup back onto the table. The wine tasted stale on his tongue and he had lost his thirst for it. Turning he shuffled on unsteady legs over towards the balcony window and stared out into the night once again lost in thought. The candles in the room flickered momentarily as a gentle chill breeze blew into the room and he shivered at the feeling.

  “I will be the greatest ruler that ever lived.” said Gomorrah to the night sky.

  But his words lacked conviction and he cursed darkly. His Master of Coin, Athelardus, had been right and he was running out of patience and time. Gomorrah had painted a good picture of an impressively well-run kingdom, with an efficient bureaucracy but the other nobles knew he had fought wars which he could not afford. Land had been seized, homes and properties sold and taxes increased to help supplement the royal coffers but the monies were all but gone and resources drained. He knew if he didn’t act soon then anarchy was liable to supervene.

  “First I will take the the Piathaleas in the South. I will invade their lands and fall upon them with sword, fire and talon. Once I control the waters and the trade routes then I will turn to the Nakaloo in the West and I will pillage their deep gold and silver mines and line my coffers. I will destroy their idols, kill their leaders and carve up their land. If they resist me and do not flock to my banner they too will die and with more money I can build a bigger army and then I will turn my attention to the tribes in the East.”

  A slow satisfied sigh escaped Gomorrah lips and suddenly the wine beckoned him once again. Just as he was about to amble back over to the table and pour himself a cup there was another knock on his chamber door.

  “Come.” he commanded gruffly.

  The door opened and in stepped Hermes with the Gatekeeper Hamon along with Giliane. She was wearing a simple white gown and her long hair flowed behind her like a brown mane as her dark eyes flicked nervously towards the King. The Gatekeeper was dressed in his normal attire and was nursing a blood-stained bandage over his head.

  “My King.” they all said in unison, bowing down low.

  Gomorrah stared at the two of them, enjoying their discomfort and feeling the stirrings of his hot anger once again as he returned to his usual cold demeanour. His eyes looked slowly over to Hermes whose hand was resting on the pommel of his sword.

  “Kill him.” ordered Gomorrah simply.

  In an instant the Captain of the Guards drew his blade, turned and slammed it hilt-deep into the chest of Gatekeeper. With his eyes wide in shock Hamon uttered a gurgled, shuddering groan and stared down at the blood pumping from the mortal wound in disbelief. His hands weakly tried to pull at the sword but Hermes stepped forward, lifted his foot up and kicked the body away wrenching clear the bloodied blade as he did so.

  “No.” screamed Giliane collapsing to the floor, her eyes transfixed on the blood pooling on the ground from the dead Gatekeeper.

  “Death is the only absolute when you betray the faith of your King.” hissed Gomorrah with a grim smile.

  “Please….please, I beg you, my King.” she cried reaching out with her fingers towards him and clawing at his silken robe.

  “You shared a bed with a traitor!” spat the King looking down at her with a look of disgust on his round face.

  Her mouth opened and closed, tears springing to her eyes and she shook her head slowly.

  “I…I have already told you everything, my King. Everything! I beg of your mercy. Please!”

  Gomorrah said nothing for a moment, his beady eyes raking over her slender angular face then he nodded his head slowly.

  “You have a pretty face but it reeks of guilt and lies.” he said.

  Giliane glanced at the Captain of the Guards then back at the King fearfully as he continued speaking.

  “Hermes, take away her beauty but let her live. No man will gaze upon your face again.”

  “My King?” asked Hermes hesitantly.

  “Do it or I will feed you to my Meldlings myself!” snapped Gomorrah with his eyes flashing angrily.

  “No…no…no.” cried Giliane shaking her head.

  Hermes drew a dagger and advanced on her slowly. Then her screams began.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ansk

  Outskirts of the citadel

  Dione approached the cow slowly from the side whispering soft soothing words as she did so. The animal looked up and shook its head, swishing its tail in agitation as the buxom woman manoeuvred herself to its side and placed the wooden bucket onto the straw covered ground underneath its udders.

  “Just stop that, Marjorie!” she said, chastising the animal and raising a thick warning finger.

  The cow swished its long tail from one side to the other as though in a final act of defiance then lowered its head and snorted.

  “She’s cranky this one.” grunted Dione dragging a three-legged stool across from the side of the milking shed to the animal and lowering her bulk on top of it with a groan.

  “Why do you talk to her?” asked the boy innocently watching her from behind. “She can’t understand you.”

  “I’m lett
ing Marjorie know I’m there, young Robert,” answered Dione half-swivelling in the seat and staring back at his freckled and curious face. “Notice the placement of her eyes? They are on the side of her head rather than facing forward like you and I so she can easily watch for predators. I’m just telling her I’m not a predator and letting her hear my voice.”

  “Is she really cranky?” asked Robert looking a little nervous.

  “Aye, she’s got personality this one and a history of kicking but she gives good milk.” said Dione patting the cows rump.

  “Will she kick?”

  “She can and she will if you’re bothering her so don’t ever walk directly behind a cow especially this one. Marjorie’s quite accurate with those hind legs of hers but don’t give up or she’ll think she’s won.”

  “But how can you tell if she’s…mad at you?” questioned the boy with a frown on his face.

  “Oh there could be a number of things that could make her mad, young Robert. Her udders may be too congested and swollen full of milk, she may have developed mastitis that might be sore and painful or she could be suffering with heat stress. Look for signs to see if she’s in discomfort. If her head is low and her back arched then she’s stressed and a cow that’s in distress suffers a decrease in milk yield. Cows are milked twice a day, morning and evening and it should be a relaxing comfortable experience for both you and the animal.”

  “Doesn’t sound very relaxing, it sounds dangerous,” mumbled Robert. “What is she like when she’s happy?”

  “On her happy days she’s just plain miserable.” replied Dione laughing out loud and slapping her thigh.

  Robert grinned and took a couple of steps forward as she delved into the pocket of her long dress and pulled out a length of twine. She then leant forward and used the yarn to tie the cow’s tail to its leg.

  “Why have you done that?” asked the boy quizzically.

  “An experienced milker knows that tying a cow’s tail to its leg prevents it from swishing manure onto its legs or udders and contaminating the milk. It also can get really irritating as you’re milking. Now are you ready to watch me milk, young Robert?”

  He nodded his head frantically as she leant in with her shoulder against the animal resting her head against its flank in front of her stifle.

  “Get in close then and watch what I’m doing!” said Dione without looking around. “And keep an eye on those hind legs of hers. Marjorie has a rather mischievous habit of kicking the bucket over when it’s near to full so let me know if she bunches up, you hear? That’s why sometimes it’s a good idea to have a second bucket on hand to pour the milk into so you don’t lose it all if she does kick out but I forgot to bring it.”

  Robert shuffled closer whilst keeping a wary eye on the cows back legs as Dione wrapped her hands around two teats, one from the front and one from the rear. With her thumb and forefinger around the base of the teat she gently squeezed down to push out the milk and the boy squealed in delight as he saw a jet of white liquid squirt into the wooden bucket.

  “You have lots to spare, don’t you girl?” whispered Dione.

  After about half an hour and when the bucket was a quarter full she looked back at Robert with a grin on her face.

  “Want a go?”

  “Can I?” he gasped with his eyes widening in surprise.

  “Well you have to learn some day, young Robert. Are your hands clean?” she asked pushing herself up from the stood with a grunt.

  “Sure are.” he replied wiping them down his trouser legs quickly and hopping from foot-to-foot in anticipation.

  “Don’t get too excitable!” snapped Dione planting her hands on her wide hips.

  Robert planted himself onto the chair and reached under the cow then looked up at Dione for reassurance.

  “Don’t look at me, you’re not milking me. Have a look and see what’s going on down there.”

  The boy ducked his head slightly and peered at the udders for a moment as Dione moved in beside him and slowly dropped to her haunches on the straw.

  “See how the quarter I’ve just milked is looking all deflated and empty, young Robert?”

  “Yes.” he muttered.

  “Then move onto the others which are still full of milk.”

  Dutifully he reached under with both hands and firmly took hold of the udders.

  “Not too tightly,” she said staring down critically. “Just squeeze the base of the teat. That’s it.”

  It took a while for Robert to fully grasp it but eventually after great effort he got a dribble and looked up at Dione with a smug look on his face. She ruffled his mop of brown hair and straightened up.

  “Well young Robert, you seem to be getting a hang of it now so you can keep going till that buckets full then take Marjorie back out to the pasture to let her calf feed.”

  “I will.” he said happily.

  She turned to leave the milking shed before calling out over her shoulder.

  “Don’t forget, watch those hind legs and I’ll come and check on you in a short while.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  With a smile on her face Dione wandered outside into the meadow enclosure and felt the cold, crisp air caress her face as she walked. She was a full figured voluptuous woman with wide curvaceous hips, a large sagging bosom and a big derriere. Men who had tried to court her in her youth had said she had been pretty but Dione knew she was no beauty. Her face was plain and round and years of hard work outside had lined her face and her hands were calloused and fingernails blunt. But she had a warm smile and eyes the colour of hazelnuts and despite her tough exterior she was happy alone with her animals on the small holding. It was days like this where she passed down her knowledge to her nephew that filled her with joy.

  “Next I’ll have you cleaning out the wet and dirty shavings from the pig pen, young Robert.” Dione mused with a grin to herself.

  Just then in the distance a rider caught her eye approaching in a cloud of dust kicked up by the animal’s hooves. A momentary stab of fear coursed through her but she quelled it savagely and gazed at the brown gelding as it galloped towards her holding. She couldn’t see clearly the man riding the horse but he rode confidently and was holding something in the saddle in front of him. As he neared her breath caught in her throat as she recognised the rider and saw that he had a young girl with red hair riding upfront. Dione leaned against the wooden enclosure fence and waited as he reined in his mount and slowly dismounted, tethered the animal to the fence then lifted the girl down to the ground and turned to her.

  “You are far from the citadel, Agamemnon. What brings you to Ansk?”

  “The girl.” he replied wearily.

  Dione looked down at the vacated expression on her face and then ran her eyes over her long red hair reaching halfway down her back over the cloak draped around her shoulders..

  “I recognise the colour of royalty before me.” whispered Dione narrowing her eyes.

  “Her name is Anya.”

  “Does she have a tongue?” snapped Dione.

  “I know your feeling for the crown but we are in grave danger.”

  “My feelings are reserved only for that snake of a man who sits on the throne, may the Old Gods curse his blackened heart.”

  “I ask only for your help, Dione and then we will leave.”

  “Then it is yours for I am already in your debt, swordsman. Come, we shall get you both some food and water.”

  She turned and walked back towards the milking shed and called out to Robert who came stumbling out from the wooden structure. The boy’s eyes looked the swordsman up and down for a moment then at the young girl who was stood close by his side holding her cloth doll close to her chest.

  “Robert, see that the horse is properly fed and watered.” she ordered.

  He nodded his head numbly then walked past them eyeing the tall swordsman suspiciously.

  “You scare him.” mumbled Dione glancing down at his sword scabbarded at his waist.<
br />
  “You have a son?” asked Agamemnon looking back at him.

  “My nephew and he will make a good farmhand one day.”

  They walked on in silence leaving the enclosure through a small gate then she led them to a small cottage with walls of wattle and daub and a single window. It was a simple dwelling with just two rooms, one the main living area with an unlit hearth and a bed with a straw stuffed mattress, the other room as the kitchen with a stone oven used to cook and provide heat throughout the house. Directly next to it was a smaller building that stored the crops Dione had grown on the land and adjacent to that a large woven chicken coop covered in straw where several chickens were kept.

  “Judging by the look on your face you have grown too comfortable with life within the citadel.” she grunted.

  Agamemnon didn’t say anything and stepped into the house behind Dione with Anya close behind. Inside it was dark and smelled of stale smoke and animals making Anya wrinkle up her nose and screw up her pretty face.

  “I have a tolerance for it, my child.” said Dione chuckling to herself.

  She wandered through to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later bearing a large platter of black rye bread and cheese and a couple of wooden plates and placed the food onto a small table near to the hearth. Then she vanished again and returned with a jug of heavily watered wine and two goblets.

  “It isn’t much,” said Dione “But you are welcome to eat what I have.”

  “You have my thanks.” replied Agamemnon striding over to the table and drawing one of his knives from his baldric that was fastened diagonally across his chest.

  He poured a small amount of the watered wine into a goblet then cut two thick wedges of bread and some slices of cheese and walked over to Anya and held out the food and drink to her.

  “Here, eat!” he said bluntly.

  Anya blinked but did not respond and carried on staring into the distance.

  “Eat!” repeated the swordsman thrusting the bread under her chin.

  “She isn’t a dog,” snapped Dione seating herself gingerly on one of the rickety old chairs at the table. “Treat the girl with some respect.”