The Three Kings

by Slawomir Rapala

Chapter V: On the Brink of Madness

part 1 of 3

Although he had saved him from an agonizing death at the hands of the fuming Shira, the short and heavyset Nekryan who had bought Iskald on that fateful day in Dilli, had promptly turned out to be a brute and a swine. His name was Isla and he had come a long way from his home near the Nekryan Capital, Arrosah, to spend time with his friends in Dilli and obtain a fresh load of slaves at the same time.

Several years before, he had discovered quite by chance a spot where a large quantity of a precious ore was located. Instead of reporting the find to the officials, Isla built a house on the very spot and began extracting the ore using slaves as cheap labour.

After only a few years he grew enormously rich while his operation expanded to the point where he was forced to make one or two trips each year in order to purchase new slaves just to replace the ones that had died during the mining process.

The Nekryan had bought Iskald thinking that a boy of his age and his spirit could be turned into a marvellous mineworker, once properly broken of course. A boy like that, Isla reasoned, could be exploited for years to come. Twenty or so gold pieces were a small price to pay, though what the Nekryan initially received for it was only a mutilated carcass that was barely able to breathe on its own.

As for Iskald, the moment he stepped into Isla’s house marked the beginning of the darkest period of his turbulent life. Prior to this day the young Duke was convinced that he had already experienced and survived the very deepest and sinister pits of hell. He was mistaken. He came to realize this very quickly and very abruptly, as well.

Nothing he had been through thus far could have in any way prepared him for the years of torment that awaited him at the hands of the ruthless and greedy Isla and the diabolical guards that kept his mine functioning.

During the long journey into the Kingdom of Nekrya the boy spent a great deal of time alone nurturing his wounds and, between fits of vicious fever, pondering the hopeless situation he had found himself in. Having lost his only friend and companion in Xunnax, the young Duke came dangerously close to falling once more into the despair that claimed him on the Tha-kian slave ship.

Having his worst expectations realized and heading into the enemy land of Nekrya, Iskald feared that his short life was rapidly coming to a sudden and tragic end. He looked into the future and saw nothing but death and darkness.

No one spoke to him during the journey, and he had no one to talk to that would make these persistent fears go away. Xunnax was gone and so was the tranquillity that his very presence seemed to have brought out in Iskald as well.

The young Duke was chained down inside a covered wagon for days, with no one to speak to, no one to cry to, and only the gods to pray to. For days he had experienced tortuous pain following the severe beating at the hands of Shira, the last one he would ever receive from the brutal and primitive Tha-kian slave-trader.

The boy had almost died in the aftermath and barely clung to life for the next few days. Throughout most of the journey he rested in the back of a wagon, curled in a ball and fighting a vicious fever, in a state of total indifference. No one tended to his wounds, and for some time he even thought with some degree of relief that he had been simply left to die.

When he was first brought into Isla’s household, however, Iskald was pleasantly surprised. Two fair-haired Nekryans led him into a small but clean chamber, a luxurious apartment compared to the quarters he had previously shared with hundreds of other boys on the slave ship. Here, the young Duke was allowed to rest for the next several days. He spent them sleeping and dreaming of the days when something as simple as a warm and soft bed he would be able once more to take for granted.

He rested comfortably on a few fluffy pillows and had a dark-skinned maid serve him meals three times a day. It seemed clear to the boy that Isla took a special interest in him. On one hand, the unexpectedly good treatment did little to lessen his deep-rooted conviction that he only had a slim chance of surviving the ordeal and virtually no chance of escaping the Nekryans. On the other hand it did help to do away with his most immediate fears.

But he still did not know what lay directly before him and this was the reason for his inability to relax entirely. He had no idea of the horrific events that went on in the mine each day, directly beneath his feet, and had no idea of the torment awaiting him also.

Only subconsciously did he expect something terrible to happen soon, and so, every day that went by without it happening, he took as a gift from the gods. And as things continued to look better and better, as they continued to improve with the passing time, Iskald’s uneasiness only increased more and more.

Even he, however, was not prepared for the day when he was suddenly yanked from his cosy little chamber, away from the cushions and the hot meals, away from the comfort and the painless existence, and thrown right back into anguish. Three armed Nekryans came for the boy one morning, dragged him out of his room and through several long corridors, then down a flight of stairs into a small, dark storage room.

One of them opened a trap door in the floor of the cellar, while the others took the boy by his arms and then threw him down the ladder. They climbed down behind Iskald and as the young Duke struggled to rise, they pulled him back to his feet. Only now did he have a chance to look around. He stopped struggling and fixed his awe-stricken eyes on the sight before him.

They stood just beneath the rugged roof of a magnificent cavern, hundreds of paces deep — a splendid work of nature buried deep in the core of earth and supported by several massive stone columns.

Amidst them Iskald saw labouring boys and young men who hacked the tough walls of the cave, pushed wheelbarrows full of stones. All were chained, all wretched, all miserable and sorry-looking. A few dozen guards watched over the workers. From time to time one of them approached and shouted in a hoarse voice, emphasizing his words with several cruel lashes.

Painful cries and shouts, groans and weeps, and the sound of pick-axes hammering the stones echoed relentlessly off the limestone walls. The blend of all these sounds produced a noise that was rhythmic, hypnotic and awful. The sight itself was nearly surreal, as if taken straight out of a gruesome story; so fantastic and grotesque that one would not believe it unless they were to see it with their own eyes.

Not even the sun dared visit this place, however, so horrifying it was, so atrocious and vile. Only a few large fires that the Nekryans left blazing unattended between the columns diminished the eternal darkness. The workers’ shadows danced on the tall walls of the cavern, taking on the most fantastic and incredible shapes.

Iskald glared at this scene with frantic eyes and his legs caved when he finally realized just what was taking place. The three men had to hold him because he sank to his knees abruptly and almost tumbled over the edge and into the abyss.

He was too dumbfounded to struggle when they dragged him down the stone steps to the bottom of the cave, and towards one of the guards who stood away from the rest of the Nekryans. He was of colossal stature, but overly fat and repulsive in appearance. His face was disfigured by the executioner’s fire and the sickening scars served as reminder that the man was a criminal, a rapist and murderer. Even though he had escaped the penalty of death, the unnatural hideousness of his features marked him for life and separated him from the rest of the world. Only a man like Isla could have employed a primitive beast as such and placed him in charge of the lives of hundreds of people.

“This is Cisil, the head of all guards in the mine and Isla’s right-hand man!” Iskald heard one of the three men say as they approached the hideous Nekryan. “He’s the only one in charge here, and what he says, goes! So here’s a piece of advice: do what he tells you, or he’ll make sure you won’t last a day down here. He’ll kill you in a thousand different ways and then throw your corpse to feed his dogs!”

Having said that, the man pushed Iskald towards Cisil, then disappeared back up the stairs followed by his two companions. The boy found himself face to face with the giant Nekryan and unable to tear his eyes away from the hideous scars that covered half of Cisil’s face. Utterly fascinated, the boy stood still and stared straight at the guard. Not for the first time in his life as a slave he felt his knees tremble and had the sudden urge to sit down, against which he had to fight with all of his might.

“So ya’r da new li’le maggot Isla’s been tellin’ me ”bout?” Cisil’s voice was hoarse and just as unpleasant as the rest of him. His command of Azmattic left plenty to be desired, and Iskald could hardly understand what he said.

“Come wit’ me!” Cisil seized Iskald by the arm and dragged him behind with ease, as he turned and started through the mine.

“I’ll spare ya da tour, I’m sure ya had a good view from ’bove!” Cisil smirked as he pulled the boy towards the rear wall of the cave. They walked past several dozen workers and Iskald had to turn away not to look at them. Their faces were covered in dirt and dried blood, their clothes ripped and torn to pieces, their bodies maimed, and the foul stench coming from them was almost unbearable.

It was the stench of death, and a passing thought went through Iskald’s head, that perhaps he had died somewhere along the way and had gone straight to hell and was now looking at the living dead who suffered eternity. That had to be it, this could not be really happening.

He raised his eyes, but only to see a young boy staring back at him; his left arm was disfigured and hung loose by his side. He held a heavy pickaxe in the other one, much to big for him to handle. His eyes had a blank expression in them.

“Whadda ya lookin’ at?!” Cisil’s voice echoed off the walls of the cave. Iskald startled, but the Nekryan was shouting at the boy and not him. “Git t’work!”

Then the guard turned to Iskald and said in an almost friendly tone of voice, “That’s Emilio. He’s been here a couple o’years a’ready, so it’s kinda hard to git his attention. He jus’ stares into space sometimes, ’n it’s hard to git him back. I give ’im a good whippin’ then and bring ’im right back!”

“What happened to his arm?” Iskald asked, his voice weak and distanced.

Cisil looked at him with a hint of amusement that barely penetrated through the hideous scars stretching over his face. A vile grin further twisted his features.

“I had ’im flogged once ’n he just kept on screamin’ and screamin’, so I told ’im plain out, if I ever hear one more peep outta ya, off wit’ yar head!” he laughed. “I haven’t heard nuttin’ outta ’im since then. He chews his arm every time I beat ’im. Kid’s tough as nails. Ya ever see a ten-yer ol’ kid chew his fingas off, huh boy?”

Iskald only clenched his teeth.

“Here we are!” Cisil approached a little niche in the wall of the cave, just above the ground. “I’ll have ya workin’ here, ’t is a good place. Been empty for few days, kid’s gone off tha wall, hah! There’s plenny of ore around ’ere, so ya shouldn’t ’ave a problem gittin’ started.”

Iskald stood silent and tried to focus on the guard’s words but his thoughts continued to turn to the little boy with a limp and disfigured arm. Cisil’s ruthless and inhumane words, stripped of any emotion or feeling, still rang in his ears.

“Git t’work now! If I come back here ’n see you ain’t doin’ nuttin’, I’ll give ya da beatin’ of your life, boy! Ya’ll beg me to kill ya!”

Iskald stared blankly at the tool that Cisil left lying on the ground before him. Everything had happened so quickly and it was all so overwhelming that the young Duke had a difficult time organizing his thoughts. Left dumbfounded, he stared at the wall before of him, unmoved.

He still did not quite understand what had happened, he still had not quite grasped the enormous change that had so suddenly taken place. He could still smell the bar of soap he used to wash his face that morning, and it was difficult for him to think that he was not to go back to it anymore. That this place would be where he would stay for... for how long?

Working, living like a rodent, underground, away from people, away from the world — away from life. Working, slaving away to make Isla even richer than he already was, to satisfy his greed, until he could work no more, until he himself would turn into one of those wretched, maimed creatures like Emilio, until his body rotted away, until he would die a thousand times over? Until Cisil decided it was time for him to die because he was no longer useful, until Isla sucked him dry of all life and all hope, of everything, all that he had left?

Blue blood boiled in Iskald’s his veins. He was the son of Vahan and Dynah of Lyons, he was heir to the throne of the Estate; he had been born in a palace, raised in colossal wealth, treated with honor and respect from the day he was brought into this world. This, he thought, this was not going to happen.

“Don’t just stand there, you goddamn little maggot! Get to work!”

At the same time as he heard the angry remark, Iskald felt a stinging pain in the back of his neck where the tip of the whip landed. A slim Nekryan guard stood behind him and was set to deliver another blow. Iskald gave him no time. A sudden wave of utter hatred came over him and before the boy stopped to think what he was about to do, he snatched the steel pickaxe that lay before him and turned, raising it high above his head.

It might have been a desperate ploy had not General Aezubah himself trained the boy. Quick as lightning he delivered a furious blow. A thousand images passed through his mind as the heavy tool plummeted down.

To be continued...