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JTPYO – King of the Land of the Dead [3] / a devil's work (excerpt: it isn't him!)
Copyright © 2024, 2025, 2026 by Kristi A. Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Which is me.
Synopsis of "a devil's work" – In the original outline for JTPYO – King of the Land of the Dead [3] / a devil's work, it says:
3. a devil's work
Naxosos attempts to break away from the Children of God but ultimately finds separation impossible.
I know, it's really short but I hadn't written any of it at that point, but only been working on King of the Waste [3] / the trap; that's the part I'm working on now, after some years have passed.
"A devil's work" has a lot of stuff going on in it. Naxosos isn't just bored and angry with the Children of God, stalled in the fishing burg Aslel-Aheyah, but still despairing over the death a year prior of his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter Shaenaelli at the hands of the sorcerer Xaichos, employed by the Meriezirim Honey to track the Children of God to the Home of the Elite in Satria.
Naxosos escapes the Children of God (against an oath he has taken, he uses magic to do this) and ends up spending some time on a troublesome island, Waresh-Ghlia, as a guest of Vlaitor Rostini, a retired actor, orator, artist, spy, and assassin. He encounters other people on the island, including the sorcerer Joliel, who has managed to track him to this place and, among others including three young, hard-working, talented, intelligent, and charming slave-women, AND a mercenary named Szera Zeracx who is like Vlaitor an assassin working for the Emperor of Cela.
After some months on the island, Naxosos is eager to get away for a few reasons, mostly having to do with the ongoing, multinational project to make him a captive of the Steward of Arigne, Aritritas. He strikes a deal with Szera Zeracx – partly involving money – to take him away from Waresh-Ghlia.
They spend some time sailing in the open Channel, but the Szera (so-called because he is the head of his Pavrani clan the Szerai) decides that they should visit one of his estates, his family's most ancient holding. With a few misgivings, Naxosos agrees and so this excerpt "it isn't him!" starts when they disembark upon the shore of a bay named Yehemah-olig.
So, "a devil's work – it isn't him" references a number of parts of JTPYO that have already been written and published in my blog – for example, "about thirty" (part of JTPYO – King of the Land of the Dead [1] / a bitter draught) in which Naxosos and his company are pursued across a forbidding waste after the capture of his cousin Saridizi Maliel, another fugitive from the Steward of Arigne, and the sorcerer Joliel renders valuable aid in that he destroys "about thirty" pursuers in the space of a few minutes; "the island" (as mentioned above), and "return" in which Naxosos has decided to return to the Children of God, rejoining his tribe as they revel on the land bridge of Jehnehannu, where there is a citadel owned by the sorcerer Joliel.
(OUR TALE THUS FAR) – Naxosos and Szera Zeracx travel into the Szera's ancestral holding, along the way experiencing an ambush that is not entirely unanticipated. The Szera manages to kill the six armed men awaiting them, but takes a fatal wound – or a wound that would surely be fatal, except that Naxosos manages to restore him to life.
After this fracas, both men are left greatly weakened. Other things happen, but within a short time Naxosos finds himself alive and uninjured, wading amongst the reeds and rushes of a gigantic lake, the Graena, with night-birds and frogs – and a human or two – serenading him.
(Where are we?) Naxosos and the Szera Zeracx have encountered foes seeking to prevent their entry into the Szera's holding.
- - - - - - - - -
Direm remarked worrisomely to Atethis: "The Redoubt comes! The legend is correct!"
Atethis said: "Be glad, then, that we're dead."
The gasping stopped; his friend gave a faint, tortured groan, and that was it; nothing further could be heard.
Someone crossed the log bridge and he heard the stomping and rattling of an armed man not trying for stealth.
Sight and sound dimmed in a burst of panic. Fortune!
Hackles rising, an intense prickling racing up and down his backbone and into his extremities, not daring to breathe or even to think, Naxosos pressed his face to the ground for many seconds.
"These are dummies!" a man exclaimed. (There was no sound from any of the four who had been hidden in the covert uphill – Naxosos presumed these were all deceased.)
Something, their ruse with its boughs and assorted items of clothing (and a few stones for weight) was kicked. "Not good."
In spite of his jangled nerves Naxosos wondered yet again where the accent came from – this one spoke the language without flaw, but didn't sound Pavrani.
Another man, this one's companion, came stamping through the overgrowth and climbed down the far side of the defile, and crossed the log bridge.
In the dense growth and with his face to the ground he couldn't see these two, but perceived they were unharmed (and both quite sweaty; they stank, moreover, of tanned hide – these were the ones, he thought, whose scent had delayed their entry to this place).
They had awaited the Szera's arrival for many hours, keeping still and silent.
"Where are our guys?" The second man was louder; his accent was more pronounced.
"They're down. Shut up and keep your ears open."
Naxosos realized what these two reminded him of: Not soldiers, but militia-men or town guards. They were used to bossing others around, but not to command. He supposed it was of little use for them to try to remain concealed in such a setting and circumstance, as it was very dark and they didn't know the land; he wondered further, uneasily, whether these were certain that at least one of their arrows had found its target. (They don't seem worried that I'm going to do anything to them…)
"Where is the Szera? He's hit."
"Maybe. Keep your…Listen! Smell him! The other one is right around here."
Excitedly, "It's that geeney we're looking for! We should –"
"He's hiding in the bushes!" This one said, and laughed as though he cared not who heard him, for he had accomplished his goal. They're good shots, thought Naxosos, his anxiety and fear now diluted with anger, but they're not very smart. Then: He wanted for the others to be killed or to run away; he's going to collect a purse, and thinks he will not have to share it; he will probably kill his companion if he gets a chance.
The thought came, a whisper in his mind: He will also die.
The same man went on to remark in a hiss: "We shouldn't assume the Szera is out of play, fool! But it sounds like he was hit; didn't you hear him gasping and moaning like a little bitch? Let's look for him and come back –"
A bowstring sang twice and each man almost simultaneously made an exclamation of pain and dismay, and each fell with a great thud as though knocked down by a shot from a catapult, while Naxosos cowered less than a dozen yards off, seeing none of it but hearing and feeling it well enough, with the acrid scent of blood in his hath-a-broken-nose.
Szera Zeracx was then heard to laugh weakly and to croak in a dreadful tone, "Torivo, why didn't you run?"
One of the men struck wasn't dead and started flailing about, presumably trying to collect his weapon and rise.
"Torivo," Naxosos heard Szera Zeracx say – Naxosos felt himself growing hot and then cold at the wet, clabbery tone in the other's voice. His stomach turned to water and he had to make a great effort not to soil himself.
Someone, the Szera, strode deliberately up, not trying to be quiet. "Torivo, stay down."
"Szera Zeracx! God's…curse…upon you, I will…" the dying man gargled, interrupted by the sound of an arrow being loosed and striking someone who flailed his arms another time or two, then lay still.
"Zera!" Naxosos cried and jumped up, forgetting all instructions.
He could see Szera Zeracx's tall form outlined dimly against the white slabs of the gully, bow still in hand. That one stood with his head pointed toward the pale rocks and Naxosos heard with horror a sound that was his, Szera Zeracx's, blood dripping from that one's nose and mouth; his breathing was more than labored: It was faltering. Still forms of men, limbs sticking up, lay jumbled, deadfall at his feet.
Naxosos crashed through the bushes and vines; the Szera turned toward him. "We used my old shirt," he said in the same thready voice, "and now my good one…is ruined as well." His bow clattered. Death leered from his eyes. You are next, Naxosos!
Naxosos leaped over a body to reach Szera Zeracx. (Who are these men? he wondered in mild panic when he saw an Arigni design glinting upon a greave.)
"I'm done," the other said, his voice choked with death. "You should…try to get back to the beach. Walk…the shore…easterly…to the village."
"Let me look at it, Zera. Just let me look!"
"It's through my lung," the Szera said. "I…want to…try to run up to the Keep; that one said he –"
Looking around, Naxosos interrupted: "Are these all done for? And there aren't any more?"
He guessed there were six. He guessed correctly.
There was a grating noise as the other collapsed to his knees. "Help me get up," he said. The forest around them, and the river, and all the night seemed hushed.
The stench of blood permeated the air like a fog. The ground glittered black with it.
Naxosos knelt beside Szera Zeracx.
"Stay still – listen to me, Zera! Let's get the arrow out. Try to stay upright until we get it out."
"I said, fool…it's through my…lung. Walking slowly…I might be able to make…the Keep…" Here he stopped to gasp and spit out blood. Taking a slight, shaky breath, he shuddered with effort and pain, but then continued: "If you get it out – if you can get it out – I won't…last…ten…minutes! Leave it! My…family…"
Again Naxosos looked around. He perceived no movement except that a random breeze stirred the surrounding pines. The river's monologue went uncaringly on.
Szera Zeracx started to speak further, but Naxosos then scolded, with a cuff to the side of his head: "No! I can do this and I will do it, so stop talking and do what I tell you!"
"I –"
"Stop! Talking!"
Running a hand carefully along the other's left then right sides, he located an arrowhead with blood sluggishly pulsing around it, protruding from just below the Szera's right armpit.
The fletching stuck out less than an inch above his left shoulder blade; it had severed muscles and bones. If the shot had been more than a quarter-inch in any other direction, he observed, it would have been deflected by the plating on his buckler.
Bad luck! Naxosos thought.
How else will he ever know you are not as other men?
"Hold still! Zera! Nod to show that you hear me!" The other nodded, though it was clear he was unable to hold his head up.
He could have learned some other way!
He learned according to his desire.
Even though Naxosos held him securely and he was sitting square on the ground with his legs out before him, Szera Zeracx wobbled as a drunk man would, who feels the world spinning.
He will not be conscious much longer.
"They got you, all right," he commented. I can be scared later. "I observed that those guys who were uphill were both very good shots considering the dark and all…" I'm delaying…
"Ah. Very well, I will grasp the head of this bolt and I will pull it out – there will be little pain; the sensation will be quite unusual, however; get ready." I'm babbling. "Then you may lie down and I will heal you – if you feel yourself starting to collapse, collapse upon your left side. Luckily you were not struck from the right side, for it would have killed you and then I would have a much more difficult time of saving you." (At this, the other twitched in a silent laugh – this cost him, as he then had to spit out a lot of blood in order to be able to take another breath.)
Without further ado, Naxosos took the barb between his thumb and forefinger. This is Arigni work, he thought, as his fingers recognized the serrations on the metal arrowhead, fashioned to make it much harder to remove. They were speaking Pavrani even after they thought it didn't matter anymore. It was very slippery but he managed to get hold of it.
Even before he pulled on it, the arrow started to slide out. The Szera gave a brief, piteous cry like that of a rabbit snared and the bolt fell out unbroken, striking the ground. More blood cascaded from the wound; bubbles formed.
"It did get your lung," Naxosos said. "Lie down now; shallow breaths; on your left side." Putting a hand under him, he helped Szera Zeracx to lie upon the ground; the other was now very cooperative, having remained conscious enough to realize how atypical the arrow's removal had been.
The Szera's helmet now came off and rolled a short distance down the rock. Let God's will be done…
A trickling noise from behind startled him; Naxosos looked around and then noted blood running in rivulets toward them from the covert where the four ambushers had been hidden. One of these men sprawled a short distance away, up the mountainside. If the stone had not been so pale in color, enabling him to see, he would have been most alarmed at the strange sound.
Turning away: "You're going to feel very cold," he informed the other, who replied in a squeak, with a hint of a laugh, "I am cold already! Goodbye, Torivo! If you get to the village…"
"Just stop. The arrow is out. Now I will heal you."
Now many of the words could only be seen and not heard as the Szera attempted to speak: "I will die…this…much blood. Listen…"
"Shut up; save your strength!" Knowing it to be the truth: "I cannot carry you out of here."
Power coursed through him; it would have to be now. Placing his hand upon the wound (So much blood!) he formed an intent.
Szera Zeracx cried out again at the freezing shock of damaged tissue, blood vessels, viscera, cartilage, and bone knitting together.
This may be the end of his fighting days, Naxosos considered, for a body part so healed never returned to its former state of health or function.
("Don't you worry," Korsis Zarodi had quipped when Naxosos had rescued him after suicide, "one way or the other I know I won't live forever and thank every single god that ever was! Let me assure you I'll wage war against immortality if necessary!" to which Naxosos had rejoined, "I shall call upon you if I ever need help with that, then!")
In terror the Szera clutched at Naxosos's legs, panting and weeping. "Goodbye, Torivo! I love you!" he whimpered. "I'll wait for you in the Land of the Dead!"
"No, Zera; you're going to live. Don't talk; it will just tire you out."
In a few seconds Naxosos could see that his healing had worked, although the other had lost a substantial amount of blood in the minutes he had continued to fight after being injured.
(In spite of everything, their plan seemed to have been carried out to perfection, he noted, except that the Szera had not been faking. That Szera Zeracx, after receiving a mortal injury, had managed to stop his breathing in order to continue the ruse, to sneak up the hillside into cover and wait for the archers on the upper bank of the defile to get curious about what had happened and come to investigate, and then to assail and kill them with arrows – now that Naxosos had had the chance to see the severed muscles and protruding bones, and consider – was little short of a miracle.)
As gently as a feather: You don't have to wonder why our Father would want him alive, do you?
I suppose I don't…I don't have to wonder.
The great wounds now were sealed over with sticky new flesh and the bleeding was as it had never been – except that the other's skin was slippery with it and his clothing soaked. Naxosos tried not to think about how much blood was on his own boots or clothing. Everything stank of it and the dead men around them now began to emanate foul odors as their bodies, undone by death, disintegrated.
Szera Zeracx raised himself up slightly to spit out fluid and blood; he did this twice and then wiped his face with the collar of his tunic, and there was no more blood. The sound of his breathing cleared afterwards, though his trembling and shaking were pronounced. He slumped back down, Naxosos kneeling at his back.
Thank you, Father. You are good to me.
Naxosos considered now that Korsis Zarodi, after having cut his own abdomen open in an attempt at suicide, subsequently restored to life and healed, had taken a day of rest to be able to sit up for a time, and by the next day he had been able to stand and walk, though not far, and then by the third day he had been able to stand, walk, sit a horse, and run a few steps.
Thank you, Father.
Korsis had recovered rapidly after that, though his abdomen bore a dreadful scar and he had not returned to the state of vibrant health he had previously enjoyed. (No one ever heard him complain, however, in spite of his occasional jests that being dead was not that bad, and that if he'd had the chance to think things over, he would have chosen it over returning to life.)
"Can you get up?" Naxosos inquired, knowing that Szera Zeracx remained conscious. "We need to get out of this gore."
"I have…to see…if my family…"
"You will return to them. I don't think, in fact, that any of these men have killed anything but game, or raped women, lately. Maybe they were at each other, you know?" (At this Szera Zeracx twitched in a weak laugh.) "I can smell things like that. Of course, they –"
"Now…the blood on his dick…is his own…may it take him forever to find it," the Szera remarked wheezily, with his lips sticking together.
"Think," Naxosos urged. "They did intercept your letter or they wouldn't have known of it."
"Yes."
Naxosos could feel the other's amazement, that he continued among the living – that he had set foot in the Land of the Dead, however, could easily be discerned.
"But what would you have done? Think: You would have met the Szera while he was coming up the hill, right before he got onto his keep, and dealt with him, and then gone back to rape his wife and daughters at your leisure!"
"I've!" The Szera paused to gasp, then finished hoarsely: "I've never raped a woman and never would! I don't…everyone knows…If I catch a soldier…doing that…he gets fifty lashes…at least. Sometimes...death…" This trailed off into agonized panting.
"Sshh! I believe you." I scared him. "The love that Sojheni, Chaeneth, and Elilli bear for you is genuine. In fact, I believe Sojheni would marry you in an instant." He had, he realized, known this all along, but had never thought about it.
"Oh," laughed the Szera, "I know she would!"
He'll make it. Praise God! "And the boys like you too much, from what I have seen, for you to have done that to any of them."
"The gods…forbid!" Szera Zeracx said, laughing again weakly.
"Your crew love you; you have not done that to them or anyone they know; they're rough men but they are kind men who love each other, and you, and their families and kids." What in fact am I trying to say here? Naxosos found himself wondering bemusedly.
"Vlaitor and his friends," he went on, "clearly are besotted with you."
The Szera Zeracx was laughing to the point that he had to clear his airway again, though this time almost nothing was produced by the effort. (Naxosos had never himself experienced the sensation of having almost no blood or heartbeat, and yet continuing in alertness and motion; he had learned of it from his teachers and witnessed it happen with Korsis Zarodi: To what it actually felt like, however, he was a stranger. In spite of all his teaching and his experience, he could scarcely imagine.)
Surprising himself even further, Naxosos added: "You kill. Everyone is so used to it, I suppose, including me…everyone is so used to it, we don't even think of it."
This pronouncement brought Naxosos up short, and for a moment he couldn't recall what else he had been about to say. I AM used to it! "But, ah, perhaps…perhaps the days of killing are behind you."
"Perhaps we'll see…" Szera Zeracx commented in a guttural whisper.
Fearing he had offended the other, Naxosos replied in what he hoped was a mildly humorous way: "Perhaps, from your point of view as a country bumpkin, you're not comprehending that it was a joke…ah, sort of a joke, although I admit a poor excuse for one. But I hope, ultimately, that you will see my logic and stop worrying. If they are dead, they are beyond all fear unless perhaps it has been less than twenty-four hours. If they are still alive, you showing up at some inopportune time after just being healed from a mortal wound will help them very little." I'm babbling.
Behind them, the trickling blood from the covert by its sound had become a stream and Naxosos found that he was very keen now on the idea of getting out of its path.
He prepared to babble further, in defense of his joke, that if the company of six had stopped to think for a moment they would have instead kidnapped the Szera's family member and made him or her reveal the route down to the Yehemah-olig, but: "I'll stop talking about it!" Szera Zeracx grunted, followed by: "I should get up now."
"Yes!" Naxosos readily answered.
"Will you…run…" Amazingly, the Szera began to struggle to rise. "…And get my spear that I dropped back in the covert?"
"Yes, but wait a moment," Naxosos said. With a sigh of relief: "You're healed. You can breathe; you can talk. Will you praise God with me now?"
"I…" (Of course the Szera would balk at this; Naxosos knew thereby his strength was returning.)
"We don't have to pray, but we can say 'praise God' together."
"Oh, all right, then: Praise God!" and Naxosos exclaimed "Praise God! Thank you, Father, for saving us!" (The Szera was baptized, but Naxosos had suspected at the time, and was now sure, that the other had been only partly sincere, and his confession had not been complete.)
The Szera grunted again, weakly: "Go now and get my spear! I'll use it to rise and…at least…get out of this tide…of offal." His voice was faint and croaking. Naxosos could tell he was embarrassed at having said "praise God."
"A caution," Naxosos said. "After being healed you may feel like your energy is back almost to normal – it is not. It will take several days for you to make blood to replace what was lost; this is something you must do yourself. Save your strength, therefore."
"I hear you. Go get the spear. Quickly, now!" Having managed to rise into a half-sitting position, leaning back upon Naxosos's knees, the other stopped to gasp and pant some more. "If you would pick my bow up as well. We will have to wait until it's light to…think about getting my arrows or my shield."
"Where is your shield?"
With a weak gesture encompassing the field of battle: "I had to drop it…after I got hit. Let's worry about it tomorrow morning."
"As you say." Naxosos answered. "Can you stay sitting like this if I leave for a moment?"
"I'll…try…"
"I have never seen this much blood in one place, even at the slaughter."
"They collect it to keep it out of the ground – now you see why."
"I suppose I do." (Those who call me "Hara-ehn1" should listen to this guy for a while! He might win a "long-winded" contest with Tolalo.)
The Szera managed to stay up by leaning forward until his nose almost touched his knees. "I think I can do this for a moment. Now…go get my spear! If you can't carry me, I know I won't be able to stand without it!" The blood that covered his back and shoulders glistened even in the wispy light.
Once more Naxosos had to step over a dead man; the increasing slipperiness of the rocks required him to step with care. He entered the covert.
I…can be scared later.
And you will!
After the din of conflict the wildwood around them seemed deathly quiet, except for the river's rushing. Naxosos searched for a minute and found the spear, longer than he was tall, lying in the undergrowth.
With a sore heart: I should have helped him!
You did help him.
When he returned, the Szera was trying, without much success, to get his legs under him; his hands and feet kept slipping. The slowness of his movements was dreadful to see.
We're not safe yet.
As though on cue was the yipping of a wolf, faint, distant, somewhere to the east. He searched for a moment or two and found the bow, also longer than he was tall.
Stepping carefully over the dead man – there was no way to avoid the blood and it was difficult for him to think at this juncture of how much blood must be on his boots, though at least it wasn't soaking through yet – he approached Szera Zeracx and said "Here's your weapon. I hate to say this, but we need to go – or climb a tree, build a shelter, or something; I'm not sure what but we can't just sit here. Did you hear the wolf?"
The other reached out and Naxosos passed the spear into his hand, and the bow, that (with effort) the Szera slung to his back; fretting at how long things were taking, Naxosos once again grasped him by his sword-belt. "Let's give it a try," he said. "If you can get to your feet I can help you walk at least a short distance."
Szera Zeracx put the butt of his spear against the rock for a brace and, with an exhausted groan: "I'm ready."
After half a minute of grim struggle the Szera managed to get his feet planted. Crouching upon the blood-slick ground struggling to keep hold of the other's sword-belt, Naxosos managed to wriggle underneath his left arm (as gummed as the right!) and to hoist him until he might try to walk. (No matter the hell, we're both saturated with blood, what's a little more?)
The other was in terrible distress but gave little complaint; his labored breathing and an occasional whimper were the sole indicators. His knees shook so strongly that Naxosos felt unreasonably compelled to laugh, for it seemed almost to be the antic of a street-mummer. The Szera felt this, faintly joking, "You should laugh…for…I was tricked!"
The Szera didn't sweat – his skin felt cold to the point that it made Naxosos shudder. But he was alive, with his great heart making its best effort. He'll live. He'll live!
Naxosos then remarked, "I despair of our being able to reach your keep like this; you need to be carried. Do you know of another place, any place we can take shelter?"
With a weak cough: "We can walk around the gully, as far as we can get…maybe…and there shelter within…the deadfall."
Doubting the other would make it even that far: "What of these bodies?" Naxosos inquired. "They will draw wild animals."
"And those animals will leave us," Szera Zeracx wheezed, "and go after the carrion, which is fresh and…abundant…in this circumstance and…will not fight back." His knees did not cease to tremble. Naxosos glanced uneasily at how close they were to the defile. If he falls he'll take me with him!
"I hope you're right." Then: "Should we not take refuge in the covert? It's free of bodies, and –"
Coughing again: "No, if wolves come, they will be more likely to give us trouble…there. I won't…I won't be able to fight them."
(The Szera was starting to realize that he wasn't going to be able to go anywhere at all in his present state, and that Naxosos would not, in spite of the fact that he had carried him back from the precipice of death, be able to transport him; Naxosos felt him gasp faintly, and shudder at the onset of this unsettling idea. Oh dear, oh dear…)
The river Zicxash was a deep and deadly gorge about fifty yards to their west, he knew because Szera Zeracx had told him, and from the sound of it. The ground sloped toward it and the defile opened into it.
To the east the land rose for a couple of hundred yards, then plunged into a nearly-impassable, rugged headland thick with trees, some of them gigantic, and barriers of deadfall miles in breadth and width – also per the other's report, though it was not hard to visualize given the present terrain and their journey here.
The Szera had informed him that this eastern area was so full of game that the clan didn't bother to wall it off, map it, parcel it, plant on it, clear it, or otherwise do anything but leave it undisturbed and hunt there every so often.
In step with these ideas was another, that to render someone with blood loss or severe injury able to walk – especially for more than a couple of dozen yards – might cause that person to slip into death, but continue walking anyway, creating a great abomination. (At least I remembered some of my teaching. When I see Tolalo again… He recalled with shame, then, that it had been quite a few months since he had seen his old teacher; this day was the first in weeks he had thought about Tolalo.)
Tolalo would be of great help at this moment. Then, morosely: What wouldn't I give to hear Naimejo lecturing me about my foolishness and lack of leadership ability right now?
Weakened by having used his art to heal a mortal injury, Naxosos knew that he would not be able to carry, or even to drag Szera Zeracx. So worried was he about what might happen that the memory of recent events (only minutes ago, he had seen the Szera kill two men with arrows, then collapse at the point of death) dimmed in the face of fearful speculation.
From the east now came the war-cry of a hunting wolf – this time answered by several of its company.
"Come," Naxosos said to Szera Zeracx, "let's proceed in that direction, then." He's not going to be able to walk more than a few steps, especially uphill.
"I wonder why I am not as dead at this moment as these fellows here. I suppose…"
"You suppose what?"
Leaning heavily upon his spear with Naxosos holding him up on the other side as best he could, Szera Zeracx took a step, and then another. Naxosos was amazed.
"I suppose," the Szera wheezed, "you are, as you said, possessed of abilities…few other men have."
"I suppose I could have helped you more than I did. I'm not proud of myself right now."
The Szera took another step. "No…you would have been killed or captured. I did hear that piece."
"The Steward would probably be nearly as satisfied with my head, but I think he would prefer me to be delivered to him in one piece," Naxosos commented to this.
Another step – now they were out of the pooling blood. "They were here to take you," Szera Zeracx said. "And you cannot kill. This is…this is something about you that…is…very plain to see. You did aright. You played your part; our ruse worked." The other gasped for air, then shook with a laugh: "With an unexpected twist or two!" and Naxosos said "Indeed!"
The margin of the gully was close. The bodies of two archers lay nearby; the man who claimed to have intercepted the letter was uphill from them. It was mostly his blood that could be seen and heard trickling down the rocks, but some had traveled from as far away as the covert, where three lay dead.
"Instead," Naxosos replied, "you took them. So is the way of violence; next time it may be different. That is why we try to remember to praise God and abstain from fighting." I sound silly.
Szera Zeracx laughed, then groaned in distress. He said "A discussion for another day. I won't…won't be able to climb the hill. Listen; I have an idea." Naxosos observed that the other was attempting to clean the soles of his boots by wiping them against the rock and was again amazed he had the energy to do even that.
"That's more than I have right now. Speak, then."
"Do…you have your sling?"
Naxosos was always forgetting about the sling. "Yes, I have it." Then he said, quite involuntarily, "Oh, no!" for he divined what the Szera wanted of him.
"Let's go onto the log bridge and then…if I pass out it won't be such a big deal. If the wolves try anything…you can repel them with your sling and you may also…use my spear." The other stopped his speech for a moment to utter a squeaking groan; he trembled violently; the effort to stand was going to be too much for him within another few minutes.
(9 May 2024 1234h / 11 July 2024 / 4 October 2024 / 4 October 2025 / 9 October 2026 🌘in ♎ )
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1Hara-ehn or hara-ehndi: "Teacher" in the language of Arigne.
