The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3) Page 2
"He may still live!" Arnwylf exclaimed. "I must tell Iounelle." Then Arnwylf was quiet. "I must go home, Zik," he said. "Even if my people have been decimated by Deifol Hroth and his garond army, I must go to see if there are any left that I can help."
"I understand," Zik said with an uncustomary frown. "There will be many disappointed princesses in my city."
"You know of my one, true love," Arnwylf said with a small smile, and then looked down in embarrassment.
"Then you'd best find her and marry her quick," Zik said with a beaming smile. "Let's get back to my city."
As Arnwylf and Zik climbed down from the foothills of the Red Mountains, they were met by Myama and a group of men carrying torches to light against the closing night. The steep crags of the Red Mountains took on a dark hue, almost black as the sun began to set. Hundreds of bats winged out from their nesting places and started their hunts for the night. Stars began to twinkle, bright, white pinpoints in the east.
"So there you are!" Myama said with a motherly scold. "What would I tell all six of your wives if you were lost or killed?"
"Myama," Zik said with an affectionate hand on his first mate's shoulder, "we must sail tomorrow."
"Praise the gods!" Myama said, "to take young Arnwylf home?" Zik nodded. "Then I can get some peace and time away from my fourteen wives!" Myama said with happy exasperation.
"Oh," Myama said, just remembering an important message he had yet to impart. "We must go directly to the king."
"Why?" Zik said with obvious annoyance.
"Arnwylf's bull nyati is a record," Myama said. "They have prepared a feast."
"It's a trap," Zik said with a frown. "Our king means to marry you off to one of his daughters. Was it really a record?"
"Arnwylf's beast's horns beat your rack by three fingers," Myama said softly, hoping to not incur his captain's wrath.
"They must have been fat fingers," Zik mumbled and cast a suspicious sideways glance at his first mate. "They weren't your fingers?" Zik asked Myama as they trekked back across the savannah.
"No, not me," Myama said with indignity. "So, Arnwylf, tell me the story of your kill. We have a long walk back."
"All right," Arnwylf said, "if it will not upset your captain." Zik waved his hand in dismissal for Arnwylf to proceed.
A large, undulating cloud of small black birds, moving like a living form, surged in a synchronized, billowing flock along the last light fading on the horizon, finally settling on a large stand of trees. The savannah was quiet and still with the first dark of the evening. The predators of the night had yet to wake and began their hunts. There was no breeze at all. All was calm as the group made their way home, torches lighting the way.
On the walk back, Myama made Arnwylf retell the tale of his killing the record sized nyati five times.
As Zik, Arnwylf and their entourage entered Attubyamba, the blonde boy from Wealdland took in the city.
This may be the last time I ever again set eyes on this marvel, Arnwylf thought to himself.
The city was mostly stone buildings, two and three stories high, built with red stone cut from the mountains. On the eaves and ledges of the buildings were decorative busts, of fish, nyumbu, nyati, monkeys, lions, and another large feline animal, with enormous fangs, that Arnwylf had never seen before. All the statuary, adorning every cornice and ledge showed the prowess in ceramics and stone carving of Zik's people.
Colorful banners of important families flew from every doorway. Every street was filled with happy, fat vendors selling fruit of every description, vegetables, cuts of meat, and barrels and barrels of fish. Attubyamba was an important fishing city.
Even at night, the city was bustling, lit with rows of ornamental torches that brilliantly illuminated the busy city. It was said that the city never slept, and Arnwylf could believe that it was true.
Attubyamba was a crush of villagers, warriors, merchants, and nurses minding scores of mischievous children. Although the city was crowded, every citizen seemed to have a smile on their face, and politely and happily greeted every other person they encountered with joy and friendliness.
The clothing of Zik's people was riotous in color and design, and it seemed the more outlandish the design and the more flamboyant the palette, the more the citizens of Attubyamba loved it. Some designs were striations of color accented with bands of black. Some designs were bright patches of color, radiant even in the dimness of the evening, representing the wild variety of flowers that grew in the land south of Wealdland.
Every third shop was devoted to books and scribes. Zik's people were voracious readers and the scholarly pursuits were held in high regard.
Arnwylf was a novelty in Attubyamba with his white skin, blonde hair and tall stature. Zik's men had to ring the boy to keep him from the pinches of the curious, kisses from love sick girls, and desperate glad handing of every merchant who saw the boy from the Weald as a once in life time business opportunity.
A group of muscular men, all wearing curiously worked gold collars, pushed their way towards Zik, Arnwylf and their friends. The muscular men had an official air about them. And although the citizens of Attubyamba grumbled when they were pushed aside, they knew better than to complain.
"The King's Guards have found us," Zik said with a sideways frown to Arnwylf.
"Arnwylf!" The lead Kingsman hailed the boy. "The King wishes to fete you." The King's Guards wore the beautifully worked gold collar of rank, but wore no shirt or tunic, to show off their powerful upper bodies. They shaved their heads, and covered themselves in the oil from a certain tree to make their muscular bodies shine with warning of their rank and strength.
"We will come to the palace a little later," Zik said with a dangerous, thin-lipped smile, and dismissive wave of his hand.
"The King has only ordered Arnwylf to attend," The Kingsman said, low and challenging to Zik. "You may go wherever you like, sailor, I care not."
For a tense instant, the groups of men sized each other up, readying for a fight. Zik's eyes narrowed like a dangerous animal ready to pounce. The citizens of Attubyamba instinctively drew back into doorways and shops, giving the two groups of powerful men plenty of room to brawl.
"How can I tell of my killing of the record sized nyati without the only man to witness the event?" Arnwylf said with a happy slap on Zik's back. "Who will keep me honest, but Zik? My friend, all my friends, must come to the fete. I know the King would not want to dishonor me by leaving my friends out of the feast."
The Kingsman was embarrassed, and too flustered for words. The tense situation dissipated with Arnwylf's broad smile.
"You heard the boy," Zik said with an imperious gesture to the Kingsman. "Lead us to the feast, Lover of Land."
With that, Arnwylf and Zik turned and headed straight towards the palace. The Kingsmen had to rudely push the crowding villagers aside to run and catch up, and sloppily assume an escorting formation around Zik, Arnwylf and their entourage.
The royal mansion of King Otodyo of Attubyamba was sprawling and opulent. Several gardens surrounded the huge building that was made of blue bricks, bricks that were unique in all the city. The palace was a series of square structures topped by squat, oval domes of weathered green copper. Every window had a shutter of black, ebony wood, carved in intricate patterns. In the gardens that stretched out in many descending tiers were several tethered, wild animals displayed for King Otodyo's amusement, and to show off the wealth of the old king.
A chained lion started and roared at the approaching group, it's eyes flashing, huge fangs bared, massive paws swatting with vicious claws. Myama jumped, eyes wide, and loudly cursed. All the other men had a good laugh at his expense.
Arnwylf had been to King Otodyo's palace several times, but preferred to avoid it when he could. The fat, old king invariably tried to marry Arnwylf off to one of his daughters. Arnwylf's excuses and delays were becoming less and less acceptable to His Royal Highness.
The front doors of the palace w
ere huge, ornately carved slabs of the blackest ebony wood. The gold hinges, locks and handles glowed brilliantly against the deep black of the wood doors. Arnwylf thought the doors resembled the Kings Guard, oiled, dark, and huge, with accents of gold. He smiled to himself.
The noise of the cacophonous party inside spilled out as the heavy doors were creaked open by the attending Doormen, who were dressed as the King's Guard, but had a single red feather tied to their upper right arm to signify that they were trusted throughout the palace.
Zik and Arnwylf exchanged an exasperated look, then marched into the palace of King Otodyo.
Arnwylf noticed Captain Zik furiously whispering to his First Mate, Myama, as they entered the marbled, lavish foyer of the palace. The Kingsmen and Doormen led Zik, Arnwylf and their group to the main hall where the feast was in full riotous splendor.
Zik pulled Arnwylf close.
"What ever you are asked tonight," Zik whispered, "do not answer a direct 'yes' or 'no'. Do you understand?"
Arnwylf nodded his head.
In the main hall of King Otodyo a crush of nobles and ladies danced to wild, yet beautifully melodic music produced by fifty musicians crowded into one corner of the hall. The wide variety of musical instruments: mellow brass horns; shrill reed horns; bright trumpets; twanging stringed instruments of many kinds; and many, many different kinds of drums, all made a crashing, yet rhythmic sound that stirred the blood and was fun to dance to.
The head of the nyati that Arnwylf had killed was prominently displayed on a huge wooden table in the center of the entrance to the main hall. The gristly head of the beast was adorned with orange and yellow flowers. The beast's tongue lolled out of its still frothy, saliva caked mouth. Delicacies and other silver plates of food were arranged around the head of the record-breaking animal. It was a scene of brutal civility. Zik's culture celebrated death and heroic struggle, but was accomplished in science, arts, music, and crafts.
As the crush of notables noticed Arnwylf, a cry of favor went up.
At the far end of the hall, King Otodyo lifted his sizable bulk from his throne carved of rust colored stone cut from the Red Mountains.
"Silence!" King Otodyo commanded.
Arnwylf noticed another man, also adorned with royal gold, standing next to King Otodyo.
"Where have you been?" King Otodyo snapped at Zik.
"I took my friend to see the writing on the Little Shoulders," Zik said plainly. The Red Mountains were also called the Little Shoulders, in contrast to the Big Shoulders, the snow capped mountains far off behind the Red Mountains, said to hold the sky up on its back.
"Fine," King Otodyo mumbled with a flutter of his hand to invalidate Zik's presence. Then Otodyo straightened and assumed an officious pose.
"With the great honor of King Hathabanya, our neighbor to the south, visiting," King Otodyo announced to the happy throng, "we also celebrate Arnwylf of Bittel, Prince of the Weald, and third in line to the throne of Reia, and now slayer of a record sized nyati."
Arnwylf visibly winced at the titles. He wished he had never told any of Zik's people about his heritage. He felt, and always would feel, like a simple country lad.
The mob of lords and ladies applauded Arnwylf until his face turned red. King Hathabanya held up his hands. The king from the southern land looked remarkably like King Otodyo, and Arnwylf wondered if they could be brothers. Both were overly adorned with gold trinkets, and necklaces of many colored jewels.
"Dear Arnwylf," King Hathabanya proclaimed, "choose one of my daughters for marriage tonight, at this feast, multiply our joy."
King Otodyo, who had opened his mouth to speak, was noticeably annoyed at having been preempted by his guest sovereign's offer, and seemed to sputter for a moment, quietly spitting unformed words.
"And you shall marry one of my daughters tonight, as well," King Otodyo said with a deep, meaning voice, regaining his composure.
King Hathabanya clapped his hands and his daughters broke from the party and lined up before him. The princesses were mostly young, barely marriageable age, yet they all seemed excited at the chance to wed a now famous and noted visitor from the lands to the north.
Not to be outdone, King Otodyo clapped his hands, and his daughters lined up in front of him.
"Choose," King Otodyo said, "choose, son from the Weald."
"King-," Arnwylf stumbled, "Kings, I am greatly honored, but..." Arnwylf helplessly looked to Zik for help, who flared his eyes telling Arnwylf to go on.
"Do you refuse my offer?" King Hathabanya said with a gentle malice to his voice, a quivering smile on his fat face.
"I come from a land to the north," Arnwylf carefully said. "A land filled with ice and snow."
"Yes, yes," King Otodyo said. "We know of your land. Will you choose one of my daughters to wed?"
"My father, Kellabald," Arnwylf said, desperate to avoid the offers from the kings, "was a great man. He led the combined human armies against the evil garond general Ravensdred at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowland."
Arnwylf looked around. No one dare interrupt as he spoke of his father. But the look of expectation in every eye made Arnwylf feel a rising panic.
"My father," Arnwylf went on, "gave his life. You might say he lost, but he won. His leadership broke the garond army and saved our lives, but he died. What greater honor can we bestow on a man who gives his life to save his people?"
"Do you not want to marry one of my daughters?" King Otodyo asked, his eyes narrowing with anger.
"Your people nursed me for a moonth," Arnwylf said, continuing with humility, "after I was fished out of the ocean by my good friend, Captain Zik." The Kings glared with disapproval at Zik. "I assure you," Arnwylf continued, "I realize the burden I must have been. Your people have been only kind and honorable to me. I have learned much, and love your people..."
Arnwylf looked around with dismay, he spread his long fingers imploring someone to help him. The well dressed lords and ladies dumbly stared back at Arnwylf, as if they assumed it was a tradition of wealders to stumble and stutter, and they didn't want to be rude and interrupt his mounting embarrassment.
"Yes," Zik suddenly spoke. "But to choose properly, the Lord of the North must first see his prospective brides dance."
"What?" King Otodyo boomed indignantly.
"I chose my third wife after seeing her dance," King Hathabanya sniffed with regal disdain.
Zik ran to the musicians and urgently prodded them.
"Play, play," Zik commanded the surprised musicians, who quickly lifted their instruments and broke into a somber tune.
"No, no!" Zik exclaimed. "Faster, faster, this is a party, not a funeral. At least I hope it's not," the last under his breathe.
"Dance, dance!" Zik called. The princesses looked to their fathers, who nodded to proceed.
Zik leapt among the nobles and ladies. He swung his arms and spun in a riotous dance, elbowing ladies and pushing the lords.
"Everybody dance!" Zik yelled. "Is this a feast or a religious service!?"
The lords and ladies began to join in the dance as Zik pranced and swung various nobles about to heighten the party.
"Dance! Dance!" Zik shouted as the music rose in tempo and joyfulness.
As the crush of royals began to gyrate and laugh, Zik grabbed Arnwylf and swung him about with a merry jig. Zik tossed Arnwylf back and forth through the crush of nobles, bringing not outrage, but merriment to the growing, happy agitation of the increasing cavorting of the giddy crowd.
"Dance this way," Zik said out of the side of his mouth to Arnwylf.
Zik swung Arnwylf into the crush of wildly dancing lords and ladies, whose laughter seemed on the verge of hysterics. Then, Zik pulled Arnwylf down low, so they couldn't be seen, and crawled through the gamboling party, trying their best to keep from being stepped on.
King Otodyo and King Hathabanya both scanned the capering mob of royals for Arnwylf, both momentarily flustered. The princesses danced their hearts out.
Zik pulled Arnwylf to the back of the hall, and a large window that was ajar to ventilate the stuffy room. The window led to the back of the palace, but it was as good an escape route as any.
"Out you go," Zik said, as he pushed Arnwylf out the window. Zik rolled out the window right behind Arnwylf.
Arnwylf landed with a grunt in a royal bush of the King's Garden. Laughing he pulled Zik to his feet. But, Zik was paralyzed looking just behind Arnwylf.
Arnwylf could feel a hot, fetid breath on his neck, and then he heard the low guttural growl of an animal. He slowly turned to find himself nose to nose with a huge feline animal with extremely long fangs.
The beast was a huge predatory cat, but twice the size of a lion. Its coat was a mottled pattern like a leopard, but it had a short, squat muscular body like a hyena. Its snout was short, and it opened its mouth wide without a sound. The fangs, the length of Arnwylf's forearm, glistened with saliva in the moonlight.
Without thinking, Arnwylf dropped and rolled under the beast.
The animal bent its head down to follow Arnwylf, as Zik whipped out his sword, in one motion, hitting the beast on the head as hard as he could with the pommel of the sword.
This gave Arnwylf time to get his sword out and plunge it into the side of the beast. As Arnwylf desperately twisted his sword into the creature's heart, he noticed a chain around its neck. This was one of the King's prized garden pets.
Zik stabbed the beast again and again, as the animal writhed in pain, not knowing which assailant to attack.
"Arnwylf!" Zik urgently whispered. "Do you live!?"
Arnwylf pushed himself out from under the saber-toothed cat.
"I live," he said with a frown. "But we have killed a pet of the King."
"All the more reason to get away from here as quickly as possible," Zik said with a stone face. He looked down at the beautiful slain beast with regret. "There is no way I can pay for this animal."