Prologue

And so the Prophet Iskander shouted unto the crowds, “Stop! You speak with tongues and minds unclean. With your very breath you dirty their names. Speak of them only as the Holy Mother and the Holy Father!”

-The Göksel Günlüğü, Book of New Beginnings

 

             Asbed was consumed with such wondrous euphoria he felt shame unknown. He tore the blade from the man’s throat, the body crumpling over the table as he did so; no more than a corpse now; the soul’s departure complete; the man’s life complete. What had once been filled with gluttony and greed was now but a husk of such craven want. He looked upon the mass of flesh with gray satisfaction, the rapture that had so consumed him as he had freed himself from the beast’s constraint, as he had pushed the blade through flesh and scraped against bone, quickly leaving him. Asbed looked upon what had become of Gudleif Friherre von Nälden and grimaced.

              The hall had been decorated in the finest of the House’s silk, their color of a softer whiteness than that even Paradise could inspire in the eyes of man. Their purity had been tarnished in the chaos that had come to consume the celebrations, their virgin innocence tainted red in the blood of the celebrators. Bits of stewed pheasant and boiled chicken (Asbed had quite enjoyed the chicken. It had been prepared with great handfuls of sugar and saffron and salt.) were scattered about the floor, coating the sunken forms of the fallen. All the extravagance of the celebrators had been lost in the chaos; whatever flowering robes they had adorned left torn; whatever jewels and glitters that had decorated their lengths hidden under the smear of blood, of foodstuff, and of wine. They appeared none at all more noble than Asbed, the Hrazdian freeman still wrapped in his graying collection of patchwork rags, the only color found in them that of those he had slain: none more noble than he, the celebrated.

             “Murder!” The cry had come from the far corner of the room. A boy, an ewerer perhaps, stood, mouth agape, at the threshold of the carnage. Asbed did not recognize him, but smiled nonetheless, wanting to share his delight with another, one not quite so dead. “It’s the slave! He’s gone insane!” His smile elicited a look of great horror, the boy’s face contracting into a feverish display of trepidation. The boy had called him a slave, but that was not so! Asbed had been made a freeman this day, just moments before. While Blessed Ashnak forbid a slave from striking one’s master (May His Name be exalted!), a freeman had none but the True Faith lord over him, had none he could not fell. “They’re dead! They’re all dead!”

              The boy scampered off at this proclamation, leaving only a trickle of wet along the floor behind him. Asbed followed, though their paths were not the same. He stepped over his chains, remembered their weight as he did so. He looked down at his hands, saw only now the garish red that still branded him as he once was, what he was no more. He marveled at their nakedness, the length of his arm unobstructed by iron. He stopped, his entirety shaking with a surge of raw emotion, as he brought his hands up over his head. The tears came only then, summoned by a final recognition of his freedom, an ecstasy that washed away any urgency, any sensibility.

              He was roused from his stupor by a single drip. It fell right atop his forehead, sending him into a small fit of surprise. He threw his head about wildly, sending his unkempt mane fluttering about his vision. When all had settled he looked upon the knife still held tightly in hand, its gems turned to rubies from the mutiny Asbed had demanded of it. (Truly, this is a finer offering than any I could have hoped for. To keep out of sentiment… tempting, but to give out of faith!) But he could make no such offering now. He moved towards one of the sparse braziers that lit the room. With a kick he knocked it to the floor and then dragged a line of silk to its flame. It lit brilliantly, and he turned away from his arson and began towards his escape.

              As he made to pass the precipice of his retribution he heard the sound of running footsteps drawing close. He waited, and when a man appeared at the doorway, draped in the colors of the late Gudleif, he drove his offering into the man, his mark taken completely by surprise. The man let out a howl as he threw Asbed away, the knife finding itself lodged in the man’s shoulder. He had a sword drawn, one he seemed to forget as he swatted Asbed away with the back of his hand.

              “Damnable mudskin filth!” The man seemed to remember the blade now. He raised its length and brought it carving through the air towards the neck of the hapless Hrazdian. Asbed dropped to the floor, heard the whistle of the blade over his head, felt the sting of a few sparse threads of hair sliced off. “By the Father’s Name it stings!” He felt a touch of warmth against his back, could hear the cackle of the flame grow as it feasted on what remained of the celebration. Asbed launched himself at the man, sunk his teeth into the man’s hand. There came another howl as the man released the hand from the blade and prepared to swipe at the Hrazdian. Avoiding the man’s fist, Asbed tore the blade from the man’s weakened grip and turned the steel against its master. “Mercy!”

 

              He removed the knife from the man’s shoulder and fastened the knife tight about his waist with some torn strips of silk. He thought to drag the bloodied form of the man closer to the flame, but knew that its reach would grow, that the body would be consumed, that if the body was not consumed that it was still of no importance.

             Asbed recognized the man in death, an Adelsmann by the name of Svein. Or Stein. Possibly Stian. Whatever assemblage of vowels and consonants Asbed had produced had always been accepted. It was uncommon for a Nordnen to speak with him, a Hrazdian. Be they a cook or a cupbearer, an Adelsmann or a Friherre, his presence was one often ignored. Not Svein. While the man’s talk was often that of baseless criticism and slander, that he acknowledged the gangly figure that stalked awkwardly about the manor had always been a small comfort.

              He left Stian, though took his sword, and entered the corridor, the length of which was dominated by flagstone and torch. He removed the closest of the blazes from the wall and made towards the kitchen, his direction spurred by the commotion growing in a resounding frenzy from the opposite end of the corridors length.

             He burst through a set of doors into a fray of distressed servants: cooks, bakers, and brewers, the pantler and the butler. They let out a collection of horrid screams at his appearance, the men’s outbursts just as shrill as those of the women. There was a mass exodus from his presence, those larger throwing those smaller aside as they surged with a single intent towards the pair of doors at the other end of the kitchen’s bulk.

              He followed, putting much to the torch as he did so. He had thought there would not be much here to burn, that the kitchen would be mostly stone and mortar, but there was much to catch light. (How Asbed had forgotten about it all was a mystery to him. He had been in the kitchen just moments before the festivities had begun, and a hundred times before then.) Scattered about the room were pieces of linen: dangling from table, resting atop floor. The long strips of oaken tabletop occupied every nook that stove and sink did not. The concern became not a matter of what would burn, but rather how much would before his pursuers arrived. And as it would happen, his escape was not disturbed.

             A dazzling orange hue came to shadow whatever ground Asbed tread, burning into life from whatever tapestry or furniture came across his path. None but this flame pursued him. When he arrived at the kennels where the House’s hounds were kept he was not sure if he had slain any man, was unsure if the images that ricocheted about his mind were but simple imaginations, a reflection of his cowardice, his capacity only to imagine, though never to act.

             But the dogs were dead. Earlier that day he had ran about the grounds collecting a few leaves of bloodroot. In the cellar he had found a couple heads of wormrot clinging to the dank and murky walls. Harmless by themselves. Harmless when mixed together. But when added to a cup of red wine…

             If his flight were to succeed he could not have the dog’s senses hounding him. As he drew near, he heard one of the pen whimper, diarrhea behind and vomit before. Asbed put the pitiable creature to peace before setting light to the abundant mounds of hay that had made up the animals bedding.

 

              Outside of the manor chaos again consumed the air. He could hear the frantic screaming and shouting that had somehow deafened itself within the labyrinth of flagstone passageways. Turning, he allowed himself a final remembrance of his erstwhile prison. He found it odd that flame licked the highest levels of the residence. He had not visited such heights.

             He continued towards the wall, a small and dumpy thing, though nonetheless tall enough to cripple him were he to fall from it. The wall was barely visible in the night’s darkness. He was undisturbed as he climbed a flight of stairs. It was eerie how empty the estate had become, though the life that bore itself in shouting certainly spoke of it being elsewhere.

              He found the means of his escape with some unanticipated difficulty. He had heard it spoken of once before and had never forgotten. A risk for infiltration, the steward had said, but the Friherre had refused any suggestion at its removal. Its leaves were in full bloom this time of year, casting it perfectly in the shadow of the night. Only through prods of the vast blackness with the tip of Stein’s sword did he manage to find the aged oak. He threw the torch at the entity, quite unsure where its bulk took root. It was illuminated for the briefest of moments before it again hid itself in a veil of blackness. But the moment was enough for Asbed. Without delay (For Asbed knew that if he did not jump immediately, and without any great foresight, he would certainly succumb to cowardice.) he threw himself off of the wall and into the emptiness of the night, into the darkness of a future unknown.

Author's Note

Any and all criticism is greatly appreciated!

Reviews

[Rewel Acosta Rivera]

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