Stormcallers: Chapter 21
Days passed as the Madrainian Pirates marched Rukiya and Kerrom through the jungle towards the center of the island, dodging overhanging vines and sharp nettled bushes. They stopped to rest only at night. They ate only twice each day. When they passed around a small skin of water, Rukiya got the last few drops. Kerom didn’t get any.
So hot was the jungle, so humid the swamps, that Rukiya’s strength was lost to her. The air weighed on her shoulders worse than any rope or binding. Unfamiliar as she was with the foreign land, she stumbled many times, and each time she was roughly hoisted back on her feet and shoved forward.
At last, when Rukiya was certain she could go no longer, the jungle parted as the beaten dirt path became a thin stone road. The going became easier for Rukiya after this; the stones were small and pressed into the earth, providing a stable ground for her unsteady feet.
It was worse for Kerrom, as when he was tripped by his captors, or shoved to the ground, the stones were not nearly so kind as the soft muddy earth.
The caravan continued, marching along the stone road with little notice paid to Rukiya. She was pulled along by her bound hands, and whenever she spoke she was sharply punished by the palm of a pirate’s hand. When the pirates spoke, they spoke in their own language and Rukiya could not understand a word.
One day more, and at long last they reached their destination, Terras Bastion, center of the Island of Madrain, and home to King Rakhnagat. The fortress loomed over the trees, surrounded by a rough hewn stone wall twice as tall as any man. As a building it was almost as large as all of Clashwind town itself. The great oaken gate stood closed, guarded by soldiers with long festnas, the traditional weapon of the Madrainian soldier.
Onward they walked, until they reached the shanty-town of tents, lean-tos, and ramshackle huts that spread across the jungle floor, surrounding the walls of Terras Bastion. The well-trod earth bad formed a natural foot-path, which strained to contain the mass of Madrainians that had made the outskirts of Tarras Bastion their temporary home. Petitioners, visitors, merchants, sages, and nobility of all kinds stood patiently outside the massive structure, waiting for their king’s pleasure.
It was into this shanty-town that the pirates marched, their thick boots squelching in the wet earth next to the straining carts and slippery wheels.
Rukiya could not believe how quiet it was. Even in her village, which was less than half the size of the shanty-town, had air filled with the sounds of life. Children playing and men and women calling to each other, gossiping next to their cooking ovens or cooing at their animals. Here, the sounds of the jungle drowned out everything else. Clicking insects and grinding bird-calls echoed through the hot and humid air. The sounds of clinking metal and flapping cloth were rare and subdued. Every Madrainian she saw had the same stoic and placid face she had come to recognize on Kerrom.
It was the only similarity between them. Some Madrainians stood tall and proud, dressed in long cloaks with embroidered tunics and leather cords. The men’s beards were long and ornamented, while the women’s hair hung to their waist and were braided with beads. Their faces were painted in faint colors, and their olive skin glowed with a faint sheen. Others were covered in animal skins, huddled over small fire pits roasting a stuck rodent. Their hair was matted, their eyes wild. Some wore armor and polished shiny weapons. Others wore cloth hats and rocked back and forth as they muttered to no one in particular. Some, Rukiya marveled at their ornate lace sleeves before realizing the lace was no more than paint on their arms.
Each had come from across Madrain to speak with their great king; to petition for aid, demand justice, or offer gifts of gemstone and grain. Some had been summoned to answer for crimes against the crown, and these were guarded while weighty chains held them down. Others were merchants who knew petitioners would need food and clothing, services while they waited.
Rukiya studied each and every one until a thick fist reprimanded her wandering eye.
Eventually, the band of pirates reached a small stretch of tamped down earth, and took the space for themselves. Rukiya and Kerrom were forced to sit in the mud next to the wall, while the others sat, stood, or crouched as they wished.
Rukiya was exhausted, almost collapsing from the sweltering heat. She wanted nothing more than to breathe deeply through the wet air, and let her aching muscles finally rest. But she couldn’t. In their moment of distraction, she had her best chance.
She crept closer to her beaten comrade and whispered as loud as she dared; “Kerrom, are you alright?”
The words sounded foolish to herself as soon as she spoke them. The man’s swollen eye had not healed well, and the days-old blood still caked his muddy face. His skin was paling, his breathing deep and ragged through his dry open mouth. His wrists were raw from the rope, and he rested against the large stone wall like a limp sack of wheat. He did not move, and if he heard her, he made no sign. The storms were near, Rukiya could feel them. Perhaps they had already dragged Kerrom into a pit of despair, eating away at his soul in a vicious frenzy.
Perhaps, she thought, if she could drag him away from the horrors in his mind, she might save him from a fate worse than death. “Where are we?” she asked, hoping he would answer.
But alas, a pirate heard her speak, and his boot kicked her to the mud. “Keep silent, slave. You will speak when you are told, and not before.”
They stayed in the shanty-town for a day and a half. The pirates slept in shifts, ate sparingly of dried fruit and meat, and drank from skins of wine and water. Only then, when all had drunk, did they toss the skins to Rukiya. There was more water than before, so she drank very little and gave the rest to Kerrom when no one was watching.
As the second day came to a close, a band of soldiers approached the pirates, speaking with the captain in a harsh and languid tongue. They spoke for only a moment before the soldiers moved on, and the captain clapped his hands at the rest of his crew.
Rukiya was already standing before they had the chance to pull her upright.
How much had changed in the time they had waited! As they marched back towards the gates, Rukiya saw how many tents had risen and collapsed. Camps had moved, merchants had vanished or arrived; she now knew the shanty-town was a nomadic existance of ever-changing streets and neighbors.
When they reached the gates of Tarras Bastion, the carts were unloaded, each pirate carrying a crate or barrel in their arms. Gripping their haul in their arms, the Madrainian sailors waited patiently while the gates were opened.
The ramshackle nature of the shanty town outside was not mirrored behind the stone walls. The people of Madrain still moved about their day as silent as cats, their stoic faces betraying not a hint of their inner worlds, but nowhere was there even a hint of impermanence. Stone steps rose from carved courtyards. Rock that had once been rough was now smooth through decades of use. Sunk reliefs of tall men and women dressed in animal skins and arms outstretched in majestic poise covered the tall stone walls of the fortress. Gnarled gargoyles stared down from fortified parapets and circular bartisans.
Poor Rukiya had never seen such a thing as a castle before. So struck with awe was she, that the pirate who held a grip on her chain had to tug sharply to keep her walking through the fortress, in and out of covered walkways and small pavilions, ushered along by a small band of Madrainian guards.
As they walked, the faint sound of distant conversation filtered through the air. Still further they walked, and the sound grew louder. They entered the large central keep, and the sound of clinking metal and wood joined the laughter, belying the presence of food and drink. They walked but a bit further, and entered the dining hall of Tarras Bastion.
In her village, the great dining hall was large enough to seat every member of the village. It was a place of great noise and revelry during the festivals and after the harvests. She knew well the sound of creaking wood and smacking lips that accompionied the Lergosian people eating and drinking their fill.
This dining hall was nothing like hers. Burning metal bowls hung from the ceiling, casting a dim glow over the room. Long thin tapestries dangled in front of the stone walls, twitching in the faint drafts. A long wooden table not half as long as the tables of her people’s hall stretched from one end to the other, filled with men and women of ornate dress.
In the middle of the table, a man with a thick beard and a golden circlet on his brow drank deeply from a large ivory cup. At the pirate’s entrance, he slammed his cup on the table repeatedly until the many voices were silenced, for this was the great King of Madrain, Master of Tarras Bastion, Standard of the Tall, Bringer of Justice and Champion of the Hunters, King Rakhnagat. He who had no second name, save the sacred word, which in the ancient language meant Tower.
Now, Rukiya had never met a king before. The Orenda people had no king, but a village Headman who spoke with her father, the shaman, on matters of great import. Her people listened to the Headman, because he was wise and served the village.
Goduu had tried to explain Kings and Emperors, once, but it had confused Rukiya so terribly. How could a person rule over so many towns and people, when he could not live among them all?
But in the man with the golden circlet, she could not see the bearing of a Headman. Rukiya knew nothing of the sacred word which meant Tower, nor the holy scripture which blessed the golden circlet. She did not know the stories of Tarras Bastion, the last great citadel of the ancient hunters, nor what was said of any man who sat upon its throne in the highest tower.
And Rukiya saw that Rakhnagat’s gaze was as firm and clear as any Madrainian. He was not particularly old and wrinkled, nor was he broad of shoulder nor stout of chest. She could not even call him handsome, Madrainian or no. Perhaps this was some Madrainian magic, to have a King who was no more than a man.
Then, King Rakhnagat stood from his chair. In response, the captain bowed low, and the rest of his crew opened their crates, barrels, and bags. Boxes of fruit and silver were laid upon the floor, alongside bags of meat and gold, tiny metal containers of sweet smelling spice and perfume, and rolls of fine cloth.
Last, a single crate was opened to reveal metal as black as night, and as shiny as ice.
Rukiya watched the pirates bow their heads as they displayed their goods, as proud and hopeful as she had been returning to her father with a recently killed quayla. In the pirate captain’s bearing she could see the hope of proud nod or rewarding smile.
When the gifts had all been laid before the king, Rakhnagat stepped forward and cast an eye over the piles of precious metal and jewels. He did not smile, nor nod, but looked back at the Captain and spoke a few Madrainian words, gesturing in Kerrom’s direction with the hand that held the cup.
The Captain spoke clearly, filling the room with his booming voice. He clapped his hands, and Kerrom was shoved forward, and forced to kneel. The Captain pulled Kerrom’s head back before opening his shirt and revealing the strange black tattoo.
“Sephehar!” The Captain shouted.
Such jeering and shouting followed! Such a clattering of knives on plates, of cups on the table. Then, the King clapped his hands and pointed. Two guards stepped towards Kerrom and pulled him out of the room to applause and adulation from the seated attendants.
As he was dragged away, Kerrom didn’t make a sound.
King Rakhnagat raised his hand, and the room was silent again, save for the snapping flames of the fiery braziers. Then, he turned his gaze to Rukiya.
Here, the Captain clapped his hands again, and two strong hands shoved Rukiya forward to the Captain’s side. Gripping her chain, he pulled sharply, forcing her body upright, her hands over her head, like this. He spoke again, his voice quieter, almost intimate.
Rakhnagat stepped closer, his golden circlet glinting in the light. He stared Rukiya up and down, circling her a moment before grabbing her arms and kneading her muscles like dough.
She pulled away from his fingers, and the King laughed as he grabbed her neck. He squeezed her arms and legs and stared at her mouth and teeth. Finally dropping Rukiya to the ground with a grunt, he clicked and hissed through his teeth, waggling his head back and forth in a mad dance Rukiya did not understand.
At last, the King turned to the assembled throng and spread his arms. Words were spoken. Heads were bowed. Cups were slammed on the wooden table as cheering and shouting echoed throughout the room, for the Captain had been well rewarded for his gifts, and granted a place among the King’s honored warriors. Perhaps Kerrom would have been enough, but a slave from the storm-blown islands of Lergos? A girl strengthened through a life of breathing the air tainted by flame and lightning? This was a prize indeed for the Madrainians. The King clapped his hands, and Rukiya was dragged off into the darkened palace.
She was not as still nor as silent as Kerrom.