Date: Fri, 30 Aug 2013 15:46:56 -0400
From: M Patroclus <thephallocrat@gmail.com>
Subject: Marked by the Gods, Part 6

"Marked By the Gods"
A Myth in Eight Parts

By ThePhallocrat (email: thephallocrat@gmail.com)

PART SIX

Damek pulled the hood of his cloak down further to obscure his face as he
shuffled impatiently in place. The line of refugees waiting to enter the
city was not long, but moved slowly, and many were turned away. Facing a
long siege, Kadnaris could not afford to take on more mouths to feed
without good reason. Damek could not understand why any of the wretches in
line wanted to enter the city anyway - it was like walking willingly into a
death trap as far as he was concerned. But with the countryside in turmoil
and armies covering the land eating everything, some of the simple folk,
not knowing any better, thought they would be safer behind tall walls. As
for the Prince's armies already beginning the siege, they had no reason to
stop them. Let the enemy take on more wretches and burden themselves
further. They were only there to prevent capable reinforcement, and clearly
none of these peasants could use a sword or hold a shield.

Damek tried to swallow his contempt and blend in. It would not do to appear
too capable, lest the enemy think him a spy. Gaining access to the city was
a dicey prospect to begin with - even if he managed to get in, there was no
knowing how he'd get out again when the siege began in earnest.

And yet, Rannell Kent and the Prince had entered Kadnaris. Of that, Damek
was now certain. Picking up their trail had not been easy, but all signs
pointed to the city. It made a certain amount of sense to defect to the
enemy now that the Emperor's intentions had been brought to light, but
Damek still had trouble believing that the Prince would so thoroughly
betray his father or would join the side that was losing the war. Tytus had
too much pride to so humble himself; his attachment to Kent was more
intense than Damek would have thought possible. The Commander's mouth
twisted into distaste as he thought of it. Had Kent obeyed the Emperor's
will and resigned his position, this entire mission would be
unnecessary. That the Guardian, a warrior whose reputation he had always
admired, would abandon his duties out of such a childish attachment was
embarrassing for the entire Empire. Sex was a distracting weakness, in
Damek's view, and sex between men, which could not even produce children,
was even more so. A useless vice like drinking or gambling, it was the
diversion of boys that should be put aside by grown men.

And yet it seemed this vice was rampant, for directly ahead of him in the
line of refugees was a man, hooded like himself, holding the hand of a boy
half his age - too young to be the man's equal and yet not at all young
enough to be his child. It was only after the line began to move again
slowly that Damek understood that the boy was blind and that his companion
was helping to guide him. The realization made Damek feel like a fool for
his hasty judgement. The two began to speak to each other in low tones, but
Damek stood close enough that he could still hear every word.

"I don't know about this," the older man was saying, "They are turning most
people away."

"We have to get inside," the blind boy said, "I'm sure we'll figure
something out."

"This is dangerous," the man mumbled, unhappily. "We're in terrible
danger."

"This is a city. The priestess said we'd be protected in cities. She said
Urbanus would protect us and help us."

Damek felt a chill run down his spine. That bastard of a God! Was this some
kind of test? He didn't at all like the feeling of being toyed with by some
higher power. He wasn't even sure he believed the God existed, which made
the sensation even worse. So the boy had invoked the name of the Lawgiver
for protection. What of it? It had nothing to do him. And yet it nagged him
at the back of his mind all while waiting in that interminable line, and
despite himself he felt a growing pity for the plight of the man and his
blind companion. Slowly, a plan began to form in his tactician's
brain. Perhaps the two could be as much use to him as he could to them.

So when the man and his young charge reached the gates and were questioned
by the guards there, Damek stepped forward and placed his hands on the
boy's soldiers.

"Greetings, captain," Damek said, in his best low-born accent, "Just a
loyal old man come to fight for the true Emperor. I brought my boys with
me, they're good lads and would join the cause as well."

The hooded man flinched but, to his credit, said nothing. Damek said a
silent prayer of thanks for that. He had been half afraid that he'd deny
the story and ruin everything.

The guard took in all three of them and sniffed. "Why should we want the
help of an old farmer and his brats?"

"Oh, I'm more than just a farmer, captain. In my younger days I fought for
the Emperor's father and know how to use a blade." He pushed aside his
cloak to reveal his sword belted about his waist. With practised ease, he
drew the weapon and demonstrated the basic forms of the Imperial training
regimen, taking care to show some skill but not too much. Sweat dripped
down his forehead, which Damek hoped the guard would take as a sign of
weariness from the effort.

"And your boys?" the guard said, looking at the two suspiciously.

"He trained us best he could," the hooded man said suddenly, to Damek's
surprise. Even more surprising, the man drew his own hidden weapon and
demonstrated the same forms with more or less the same level of
skill. Under the man's cloak, the Commander noted another, lighter blade
for off-hand use sheathed at his side. Few men fought in that style.

"Two men who know how to use a sword could be welcome here," the guard said
cautiously, "But what about the boy? Blind, isn't he?"

"I can help in other ways, and I don't eat much," the boy said eagerly,
"And I'm not completely useless." With a sudden blur of motion the child
revealed a dagger and, with a casual flick of his wrist, sent it spinning
with deadly grace to strike the ground directly between the guard's feet.

The guard had gone pale. Wordlessly, he beckoned the three of them into the
city. The hooded man retrieved the dagger and handed it back to the boy,
and the three of them shuffled into the streets of Kadnaris.

"Report to the barracks for assignment!" the guard called after them, at
last remembering his duty.

Just beyond the gate, the blind boy's guardian turned to Damek and extended
his hand.  "My thanks, old man," he said in a tone that suggested their
brief partnership was over. Damek took the outstretched hand into a firm
shake, and did not let go.

"Hello, Captain," Damek murmured through grit teeth. The man flinched, then
pulled back his hood with a look grim purpose on his face.
________________________________________________________________________________________

There was no reason to be afraid. Calder repeated that over and over to
himself, trying to believe it. His hand wouldn't leave the handle of
Joren's dagger, though, where it rested tucked into his belt. He gripped it
until his knuckles turned white.

The old man who had helped them enter the city had recognized Joren, that
much was obvious. But Calder didn't understand why his friend had wanted to
talk to the man in private. It made Calder feel like Joren didn't trust
him. He always got uncomfortable when Calder asked about his past, tried to
change the subject. It wasn't fun to think that Joren was hiding things
from him, so Calder tried to think about something else. Joren would be
back soon. They were in Kadnaris. They were close to the object of their
quest. Everything would be over soon.

It was more noisy inside the city than Calder had expected. Joren said this
was a busy street, with lots of people coming and going, and that Calder
would be perfectly safe as long as he stayed near the crowds. There are
always blind beggars in the city, Joren said, and nobody notices them. That
made sense, but all the new sounds and smells, the constant passage of
people having conversations or cursing at each other, everything combined
to be so overwhelming that Calder felt dizzy. He wished Joren had left him
someplace quieter. He wished Joren would come back!

"Hey!" a voice at his side shouted, "You can't stand here! Move along." It
was a very stern-sounding woman.

"I'm waiting for somebody," Calder tried to explain.

"Wait somewhere else!"

"I'm blind!"

"So? I've lost me hearing in one ear, but you don't hear me bragging about
it! Move on!"

Scared to defy her, Calder shuffled away, hands outstretched for any
obstacles. He bumped into several people and got a few curses flung in his
direction.

"Do you need help?" This new voice, right in his ear, sounded like another
boy close to Calder's age.

Calder nodded. "I'm waiting for somebody, they will be right back."

"Right, you can't stand along here, the shopkeepers get really mad. Here,
I'll lead you someplace safe. It's close by and your friend will be able to
spot you."

Calder breathed a heavy sigh of relief and smiled in thanks. A small, rough
hand seized his and pulled him forward. He was led into the crowd, the hand
always tugging and guiding around obstacles. They walked for what seemed to
Calder to be a long time, then turned around a corner.

"Are you sure he'll be able to see me?"

"No worries, it's a clear view," the other boy replied, but it wasn't very
convincing.

"I want to go back," he said, "Please take me back."

"We're almost there. Don't be scared. If you're good they'll take good care
of you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your friend isn't coming back. Come on! He abandoned you. I see it all the
time. Good thing I found you. I can get you work. Even in times like
these. Even during a siege. Here we are."

Calder's heart was really pounding now. There was much less noise in this
part of the city, the noises felt distant and muted, but now that he had
found quiet it scared him. Quiet meant less people around. Quiet meant
nobody to see what happened to him.

"What have you got there?" asked a new voice, that of an older man,
"Another one?"

"He's good-looking, don't you think? He'll do. Only he's blind," the boy
holding Calder's hand said.

"Never mind about that," the man said, "There's bound to be some ugly old
nobleman who likes them that way. Bring him along."

"I don't want to go. I want to go meet my friend." Calder said.

"Here now, let's not make any trouble. It will be easier for you. Don't
make me get angry," the man said, coming close and grabbing a fist full of
Calder's shirt. "I can be pretty nasty when I mean to be."

"Me too," Calder growled, pulling Joren's dagger from his belt and swiping
at the air. He intended to lash out wildly and startle the man into letting
go, but the dagger seemed to move on its own, pulling and tugging at his
arm like the other boy had pulled him through the crowd. The blade went up,
stopped, then lunged sideways in a precise swiping motion. Something hot
sprayed across Calder's face, and the man let go and stumbled backwards,
gurgling. Calder heard the boy nearby swear. There was the sound of feet
shuffling, then of running away. Calder knew at once that the boy was going
for more help. He flipped the dagger around until he was holding it by the
blade. It was hot and wet. His hand extended naturally, flinging the weapon
with gentle effort. There was a gasp, and then a thud, and then silence.

After a moment, Calder walked a few steps, knelt, and retrieved his dagger
right where he knew it would be. Then it all hit him, the smell of the
blood, the dripping dagger staining his hands, and he turned and ran in a
panic towards the sounds of the busy street.

"Calder!" It was Joren, thank the Gods. Soon the man's arms were encircling
him. "What happened to you?"

"Take me to the Dark God soon," Calder said, weeping, "Before its too
late."
________________________________________________________________________________________

This Emperor looked little like his brother, Kent thought, though they were
twins. Tytus' father was growing larger, his belly swelling as though each
city and province he conquered were added to his girth. Perhaps that would
explain why the Emperor that sat before Kent now, attempting to look regal,
seemed so thin. There was little to the man but skin and bones, and his
face was pale, his eyes wild. He was every bit as dangerous as his brother,
perhaps even more so now that he had almost nothing left to lose. Madness
had come upon him. Kent had heard the servants whispering that fact since
he had arrived, but he had not needed their gossip to know the Emperor's
sanity was slipping. One look at him was enough.

It had not been an easy road that brought the Guardian of the Flame into
this room. When he had carried Tytus out of the camp and into the night, he
did not give himself time to think where they would go. It was only later,
when Kent was convinced they were not being pursued and had taken time to
properly tend to his liege's wound, that he realized the city of Kadnaris
was their only choice for refuge. To journey anywhere else would take time,
time that the wounded prince did not have if he was to recover. And whoever
had ordered the attack would still be waiting amongst Tytus' army. Kent
tried not to guess who their enemy was or how they had earned his enmity;
it did not take much imagination to figure that puzzle out. Kent didn't
want answers. Not yet. He wanted Tytus safe.

And so he had approached the gates of Kadnaris in the dead of night and
announced he carried the only son of their enemy, and the gates had opened
as he knew they would. He had handed the enemy two important hostages, but
they had saved Tytus's life. A fair exchange. More than fair.

"Will you not reconsider, Guardian?" the Emperor demanded impatiently. A
single finger twirled his hair incessantly, a nervous twitch or a sign of
his madness. "I could easily have your head, and yet instead I have made a
generous offer."

"I cannot join your armies," Kent said yet again.

"Not join, man! Lead!" The Emperor stood and paced, rehearsing his
arguments aloud as he had already several times. "You know the enemy's
strategy. You know more of warfare than any of my remaining generals. And
surely you can feel no loyalty still for my treacherous brother?"

"You cannot win, with or without my help. Your position is impossible. You
may withstand him for a long time, months or years, but in the end you will
fall."

"Pessimism! From a man of God? I expected better from one of your Faith,
Rannell Kent."

"It is no gift of Faith to deny plain facts, Your Grace. By continuing to
oppose your brother you will gain nothing and sacrifice the lives of many
of your citizens. Worse, you will condemn them to the slow torture of a
long siege. You must see the light, and surrender. This war must end."

"Ha!" The Emperor spat, then threw back his head and laughed so long that a
chill ran up Kent's spine. "You think I can stop? You think war will be
over when I am gone? Could have you spent so much time around us and still
have learned nothing? We men who call ourselves Emperors. We cannot help
but make war. It's bred into us. We breathe it in all our lives. We carry
it around in us like a disease and we dispense it upon the world without
remorse. We're madmen and murderers. My father was a murderer, and my
brother, and, yes, your Prince Tytus is a killer. When he is Emperor, you
will see he too will spread this plague upon the land. Emperors can do
nothing less. The power of our authority destroys our family, infects us as
children, makes us hate each other. We hate and we hate. We hate so much. I
can never surrender, do you see? I'll fight my brother with every bit of
strength I have left and when at last his soldiers beat down my door I'll
die spitting in his face, fighting until my last breath."

The man was flailing about now, laughing and raging, and Kent backed away
from him slowly. Servants and attendants came running, speaking in soothing
tones and offering the Emperor drink, food, a chair.

"He's going bad again," one said near Kent, "Send for the musician. Hurry!"
Another servant ran off.

One of the Emperor's officers came to escort Kent away, back to the the
little room that, while nice enough, was nothing more than a comfortable
prison.

Kent noted the Emperor was drooling slightly in his madness, the saliva
frothing from his frantic motion and rantings, and the Guardian felt a
little sick to his stomach.  He turned away and faced his escort. "Does
this happen often?"

"A few times a week, maybe more."

"He's insane. How can you follow him?"

The man regarded Kent blankly. "You heard him. All of them are insane. You
follow a madman, too, Rannell Kent."
______________________________________________________________________________________

"Ammon! Ammon!" The sound of his name, his true name, shouted through the
corridors of the servants' corridors always made Mouse uncomfortable. It
was bad enough that he had to stay in the palace away from the brothers of
the Woodsmen, bad enough that he was once again pulled into the service of
an Emperor and not a free man. Not that serving this Emperor as a musician
was anything like being a slave. In fact, he was treated kindly, shown
gratitude, and fed well, so he knew he had no right to complain. But he
didn't like to hear people shouting his birth name, people who barely even
knew him, but none of them would consent to call him Mouse.

He sighed. There was only one reason the servants of the palace called his
name with that kind of urgency. So when the winded messenger arrived to
summon him to the Emperor's aid, Mouse already had his lute strapped to his
back and was ready to go. He followed the servant at a brisk pace, knowing
he was supposed to be escorted even though by now he already knew the way.
Salor said that it was a very great honor to serve as a court musician,
said it was pleasing to the God, but Mouse still found that hard to
believe. It seemed like such a simple thing to just play some music for a
while. He couldn't understand what the fuss was about, especially when the
Emperor or any of the other people in the court would thank him and
compliment him. It was embarrassing. After all, it was really easy to play
the lute. Anybody could do it. Mouse himself had learned it in a matter of
minutes. He tried to explain that to some who complimented him but they all
had laughed as though he had said something very witty, which confused
Mouse even more.

Still, it was nice to be useful. Mouse had wanted to play some part in
helping out, and Salor had said that this would help. How, exactly, was not
clear, but he trusted Salor told the truth.

When they entered the throne room, the Emperor was alone, all his guests
and courtiers having been cleared in preparation for Mouse's arrival.

"The demons torment me again! Play, play on!" The Emperor said at once,
when he saw Mouse.

Mouse obliged. It took a song or two, but eventually the raging energy of
the mad ruler seemed to ebb as the music started to entrance and calm
him. The music flew through his fingers without effort or thought now, so
Mouse studied the Emperor while he played. The man had collapsed backwards
onto his throne, resting his head against its broad back and closing his
eyes. When relaxed, the Emperor's face bore a more striking resemblance to
his nephew Tytus, which made Mouse cringe. He hated them both, yes, even
this Emperor who had been kind to him, for he knew now the suffering the
war had brought to so many people and knew it was because of the whims of a
few, crazy men who didn't care who they hurt.

Still, Salor said there was a reason to follow this Emperor and Mouse
wanted to believe him. So he just played, trying to let the soothing music
that passed through him ease his own anger and hatred as it eased the
madness of the great man before him.

After some time, the Emperor smiled and opened his eyes. "You have saved me
yet again, my friend," he said, wiping sweat from his brow, "I felt myself
quite far gone that time and was not sure I would be able to return."

Mouse nodded. He never felt he could speak to the Emperor without making a
fool of himself, so he generally preferred to be silent.

"I will need you more and more in the coming days, I suspect. The final
days of the war will be upon us, and they will not be easy. Still, I will
find a way to make my brother pay, won't I?"

What could be said to that? Mouse nodded again and packed up his lute to
go, only paying half-attention to the Emperor's muttering.

"I will hurt him. I will make him suffer despite his victory. I have his
son now, oh the Gods are good. I have his son."

Mouse froze. The palace seemed to spin around him. "Prince Tytus is here?"

"Yes, he suffered a wound and fell into my hands. Isn't it wonderful? I
will fall, but at least I'll take my brother's heir with me." The Emperor
sat back, exhausted, looking ready for a nap.

Mouse felt his hands trembling. He stood without moving for a long time,
having lost all sense of who and where he was. His heart beat like a drum,
a call to war. At last, when he could stand the growing pressure no longer,
he turned and left the throne room and went back to his own quarters to get
his sword.