The Three Kings

by Slawomir Rapala

Chapter V: On the Brink of Madness

part 3 of 3

Two years had elapsed since the young Duke entered Isla’s mines bound for the fate of a beast of burden. He was eighteen years of age now, though he himself was not exactly sure of that. Shut away from the world for such a long time, Iskald was unable to keep track of time. Day and night did not exist underground. The young man had not seen a reflection of himself since the day he was taken into slavery, and he would probably be unable to recognize himself had he seen one at this point.

The young boy had transformed into a man.

Although he did not know it, Iskald looked a great deal like his father, Duke Vahan of Lyons. He was taller than most people, and his body, a sinewy frame of gigantic proportions, was marked with strings of rock-hard, bulging muscles. The broad shoulders and well-defined chest, the neck marked with veins, all served as an indication of enormous strength. A great mane of hair black as tar covered his head and face, the face that was so much like Vahan’s: motionless, ruthless and grave.

Most striking were Iskald’s eyes and even more frightening than his father’s. Where Vahan’s had been the color of steel, Iskald’s were light blue, like the waters of the Azmattic Ocean, and they had only become lighter over the years. From now and for the remainder of his days, Iskald’s eyes were to be as cold as the coldest ice; so unnaturally light that they were almost transparent and colorless, and so grim and keen that everyone who looked in them drew back in fear.

The workers who used to push Iskald around when he first came to the mines now trembled under the weight of his stare and dreaded his very sight. Even the guards, with all the power they had over the young man, felt uneasy when they looked into his face. One could see hatred and fury held back by the sheer power of will, hidden in the depths of his soul like a terrible monster just waiting for a chance to break free of the chains and to burn the world to the ground. Many times Cisil said that if one was to look closely into Iskald’s bottomless eyes, one could see a hundred thousand mad demons swarming beneath his long eyelashes.

These dreaded eyes, however, would often glaze over with sadness. Iskald yearned for freedom; he wanted it intensely, he longed after it and called its name day after day. And day after day she refused to come.

The young Duke still failed to see a way out of his hopeless existence. Save for the fact that he now commanded much more respect and that he handled the labour and torment much better than before, nothing had changed.

So much time had passed in this awful place. He had witnessed so many terrible things that appalled the very essence of his spirit. He had been through such horrendous experiences himself. And after all, he was only human and could only manage so much. Even he was beginning to feel that he was slowly losing his grip on reality. He felt himself slipping into the clutches of madness — slowly but inevitably coming closer to it.

He longed for freedom and called its name; madness called his each day. She put him to the test by presenting him with another horrific act or event. Another flogging or beating; another severed head rolling on the floor of the cave; another slave torn apart by Cisil’s bloodthirsty dogs; another young boy dying under a Nekryan whip or club; Emilio with his blank stare and a maimed arm hanging loose by his side.

If Iskald stayed there much longer, he would answer the call and slip into the darkness, the madness. He needed the sun, the open spaces, the company of men and women, but most of all, he needed someone to reach out and give him friendship and love. Iskald needed once again to become human.

He raised his eyes to the gods, the lords of the skies and fathers of all creation, and pleaded with them every night. He wanted to place his trust in the immortals who sat on their heavenly thrones high up in the sky, he wanted to believe that they were just and good, and that they were more powerful than any man on earth and could crush someone like Isla or Cisil with ease. He wanted to believe that but found it hard to do so. If they really could, why had they not done so by now? Had they not witnessed enough atrocity, had they not seen enough blood spilled? What more did they need before they punished the wicked and gave the life back to those from whom it was taken away?

Sometimes Iskald thought that gods had simply forgotten about him and about others. Perhaps they were not there indeed. Perhaps the thrones were empty; perhaps heaven itself was left deserted and abandoned, and there was no one there to listen to his pleas.

Then there came a day that brought about change. A large cargo ship was to be filled with the precious ore they had extracted over the last few months. Every now and then a corrupt Nekryan captain anchored his vessel on the river Kyla near Isla’s household. He would take the ore down river, farther south, where it was in greater demand. Each shipment meant more wealth for Isla, more riches and gold. What were the lives of worthless slaves in comparison to how lavishly rich he had become?

This time Cisil chose Iskald to be among the workers who were to transport the ore from the storage room in the mines to the ship. Before they were put to work, Cisil had them chained, something he had never done in the mines from which he knew there was no means of escape. Out in the open space, he reasoned, anything could happen, and he wished no surprises.

The chains were just long enough to enable the workers to walk, but they would stop them from running or at least slow them down so that they could be easily caught. Iskald did not mind these chains. They were a small price to pay for seeing the sun, the sky and the rest of the beautiful world that he had not seen for two years or so.

Once on the surface he stopped and breathed the air, the fresh, fresh air! His eyes slipped hungrily over the trees and the sky, the river and everything else; it was all wonderful. A Nekryan guard brought him back to reality with an angry shout and a violent shove. The young man was not able to admire the world for as long as he would have liked to. It was a terrific experience for him, nonetheless, and an extraordinary change from the dark, foul pit where he lived.

The work was not made any easier by the shackles binding his legs. From the well-hidden and disguised entrance to the mines located behind Isla’s household to the shores of the river Kyla where the ship was anchored, the distance was less than a hundred paces. Still, one had to make way through thick bushes and then, upon reaching the river, down a steep path that headed off to the right along the riverbank from the top of a crag down to where the ship was docked.

Accomplishing all this in a set of shackles binding the legs and with a heavy bag of ore on the back was no easy task, and Iskald was soon sweating profoundly and beginning to feel fatigue creep into his shoulders, into his back and legs. They were forced to work quickly because there was always a chance that a Nekryan patrol would come by.

The capital of the Kingdom, Arrosah, was just several leagues East of Isla’s villa and Royal soldiers often patrolled the area. The ore was usually transported at night, but this time the captain was in haste and rather than waste time, Isla and he decided to ready the ship as soon as possible. Iskald and other workers were therefore rushed and given no rest.

At one point the young Duke tripped while making way through the thick bush. He fell to the ground and the large bag of ore slid off his shoulders, just missing his head and coming awfully close to crushing it. One of the Nekryan keepers who kept watch over the workers heard the commotion and quickly scrambled through the bushes to where the young slave was trying to rise to his feet and place the bag back on his shoulders. Instead of helping him, the guard uncoiled his whip and struck Iskald once and then twice across his bare back. “Get back to work!” he shouted at the same time.

Iskald stumbled back to the ground and the bag slid off once again, this time catching the side of his head on its way down. The ringing in his ears increased when the infuriated guard used his heavy fists to strike Iskald twice more, this time across his face. One, two, three, the whip went back into motion, the young Duke felt it stinging his body.

A wave of wild fury and blind hatred took hold of him. A hundred thousand mad demons that until now had vainly looked for a way to escape Iskald’s soul where he chained them up with the sheer power of his will broke free suddenly and were unleashed into the world. For this one moment Iskald’s entire world shrank and became only this Nekryan guard who continued to beat him, completely unaware of the danger, of the rage emerging in the slave under his feet.

Iskald’s hatred and fury were now directed against this one single man who was going to pay for everything Iskald had gone through over the last two years at the hands of Shira, Isla, Cisil, and the whole rest of them.

A beastly growl escaped Iskald’s lips when with one swift motion he shook the heavy bag off his shoulders and darted towards the man wielding the whip. He snatched it from his hands like a toy away from a child and threw it into the bushes.

The Nekryan cursed under his breath and tried to deliver a blow with his fist, but Iskald caught it in mid-air and crushed it effortlessly in the palm of his hand. The guard’s fingers shattered like glass and with a sickening sound while the man sank to his knees screaming in pain and clutching his injured hand.

Enraged as never before and completely out of control, Iskald approached the guard from behind and clasped his hand over his mouth, silencing his cries. Two years of torment and pain came to the surface now and with a terrible grin glued to his face, Iskald wrapped the long chain that bound his arms around the guard’s neck and pulled on it with all his might, strangling the breath and the life out of the man. He pulled harder and harder while the guard gasped and struggled for air, waving his arms desperately; no sound escaped his mouth.

Iskald shoved his knee into the small of the man’s back to gain more leverage and yanked the chain even harder. His eyes turned white and colder than ever before as he felt the man’s body twist and jerk beneath him, as he listened to the short and frantic gasps, as he watched the Nekryan’s feeble attempts to free himself from the deadly clutch.

Soon the guards’s face turned ashen, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his tongue hung loose from his mouth. Then the man stopped moving completely.

Gasping for air himself, Iskald quickly unwrapped the chain from around the dead guard’s neck and let the body fall to the ground. He heard Nekryans running his way, drawn by the man’s initial shouts. Iskald had no time to waste if he wanted to capitalize on the unexpected opportunity to escape.

Trusting the yet unknown but awesome strength of his body, the young Duke took the chain that bound his legs and pulled on it using all the power of his upper body, while keeping his legs still at the same time and planted firmly into the ground. Showing great trust in his mammoth strength, Iskald yanked and pulled. Sweat poured down his face, the guards were getting closer; he could already hear them making way through the thick bush. They would reach him at any moment.

He yanked the chain frantically, and finally, finally, one ring came loose. He pulled one more time and the chain broke. Having freed his legs, Iskald wrapped the chain that bound his wrists several times around his forearms, shortening it significantly. Then he broke through it with one swift motion by pulling his knees apart.

Iskald scrambled to his feet and ran towards the river on unsteady legs. Just in time, because the Nekryans broke through the bushes and reached the place where the dead guard’s body lay in the grass. At the sight of the corpse and of the fleeing slave, they yelled in unison and followed Iskald, who by now had dashed through the remaining thicket, had reached the river and halted atop the crag. The way down was cut off by the Nekryans who tended to the ship. They were already scrambling up the slope, with the one-armed Captain leading them. Behind, Iskald could hear the guards approaching as well.

He had no time to think. The only way left open to him was the way down, fifty paces down into the speeding waters of the river. Hesitating no more, the young Duke closed his eyes and sprang forward, head first into the thundering waters.

To be continued...